Sustain or Concerto for the Famished in D Minor
by MaybeAmanda
Summary: "So now you're behaving like a six year old 'cause he didn't take you along on his honeymoon?"  Lestrade said.  "Grow the hell up."
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Sustain (or Concerto for the Famished in D Minor)  
><strong>Authors:<strong> onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC17/Adult  
><strong>Pairings<strong>: Sherlock/Molly, John/Sarah

**Summary:**_ "So now you're behaving like a six year old 'cause he didn't  
>take you along on his honeymoon?" Lestrade said. "Grow the hell up."<em>

**Warning:** Blatant acts of heterosexuality, wanton acts of procreation,  
>gratuitous in-jokes, boxing, deep fried foods (wholesome and less so),<br>swearing, good biscuits, very bad tea, mentions of past drug use and  
>sexual exploits.<p>

**Now with Brit-picking!** (special thanks to gozadreams!)

**Disclaimer:** Fanfic of fanfic. No infringement intended.

* * *

><p><em>We are Always Striving for Things Forbidden,<em>  
><em>and Coveting Those Denied Us<em>

_-Ovid_

Dr. Hooper hated Dr. Watson. Or, to put it another way, Molly hated John. She hated him for inviting her to his wedding and being such a genuinely nice person that she couldn't bow out without feeling rude. She hated him for falling in love with a really nice woman and getting married. She hated him for moving ahead and finding joy and celebrating life and love, when Molly herself was stuck in a rut. Worse than a rut. A pit. A hole.

She knew it was wrong to resent other people's happiness, that such feelings were a clear sign that she was one step closer to becoming the bitter old maid she never wanted to be, some sort of medical nun. Having spent her entire time before uni in Catholic school, Molly had a healthy distaste for anything that even smacked of nuns. Yet here she was, alone, completely alone in the world, weighing brain after brain, cutting Y-incision after Y-incision. Nothing she did mattered; her patients were all dead, after all, so there wasn't much danger of her saving anyone's life.

Or even being noticed. True, she published. Occasionally. Very occasionally. And, almost without exception, her papers met with yawns. Apparently, parasitological causes of death in the elderly just weren't sexy enough to attract the attention of her peers.

Nothing worked for her. She wasn't stupid, and she knew it. But knowing it hardly mattered because she couldn't seem to put two words together without sounding like an imbecile, leading people to treat her like a slow child. She was plain, too, and, she had no feminine wiles, no wiles of any kind, come to that.

She was so ridiculously straight-forward most of the time that she couldn't even manage successful irony. It was no use trying to be hip and sardonic if everyone thought you were serious; she discovered that when her co-workers started squealing with apparent delight at her about the most recent episode of Glee.

Damn.

She took another sip of her third Screaming Orgasm and sighed. The Jim Business had been terrible. He'd been so sweet and frankly, the sex had been so unbelievably good, and then it had all gone so very, very wrong. What had she done to deserve it? She'd always been unlucky in love, but, honestly, The Jim Business settled it. No more boyfriends for her, thanks. She couldn't take another fiasco.

Then, her cat had died.

Then, when she thought it couldn't get worse, her father died.

And the week before John's wedding, with the sale of her father's chip shop complete, she felt like a balloon that lost its string and was heading for the electrical line. She could see people like John Watson and Sarah Sawyer down on the Earth, falling in love, getting married, living lives, but she felt she was an untethered idiot sailing towards disaster. They'd probably have a baby soon, too.

More than anything else, that filled Molly with a guilty fury. She couldn't remember a time when she didn't want a baby. When she'd been younger, it seemed as though she had all the time in the world to fall in love, marry, and have children all her own. Now, it seemed that time had slipped past her while she was dating all the substandard, reheated cabbage London had to offer.

All she really wanted out of life was a little - a very little - baby. Was that so much to ask?

But, come to think of it, that wasn't impossible, was it? She'd considered it on and off, mentioned it once or twice, only to have those she'd mentioned it to look either pitying or horrified. She probably couldn't afford to raise a child in London, but she had saved plenty over the years, and with the sale of the chip shop she could buy a cozy little place somewhere in the country. Why not? Really, why not?

There and then, at John Watson's wedding reception, wearing the little black dress she kept in the back of her cupboard for special occasions, Dr. Molly Hooper pulled out a pen and wrote out a plan on a cocktail serviette.

It looked like this:

A.I?

New Job ?

House ? Garden?

And then she doodled pictures of cats at the bottom.

She had to admit, she'd had a bit to drink.

~!~!~!~!~!~

Sherlock looked round the wedding reception, sick to death of playing the dutiful best friend. He'd done all the jocular, cheerful, toasting and pleasantries his patience would allow. What he needed was something to occupy him until he could escape. Forty seven minutes plus-or-minus six by his count.

He cast his eyes about the room for the three hundred and eighty-ninth time, bored stiff of deducing the dull, dull lives of the dull, dull guests. In a crowd this size, statistically, there had to be at least one worthwhile mystery hiding

somewhere, but he came up with nothing. John and Sarah had the most boring collection of friends and family of any two people in London.

He looked around again. No one had caught fire in the past few seconds. Pity, that.

"Evening, Sherlock." Ah, Lestrade. "Good speech, mate. Molly owes me a dance. Seen her?"

Sherlock frowned.

Lestrade shook his head as if he had just realized what a stupid question it was. "Yeah, yeah, I'm an idiot. Cheers," he said, and wandered off again.

Sherlock mentally sighed. Lestrade he had deduced down to his toilet habits, and Molly Hooper might as well have been made of cling film she was so transparent. The only mystery involving her wasn't even her own: it was Moriarty.

There was one question that had been niggling like a loose threat in his collar for the last six months. Why had Moriarty done what he'd done to Molly Hooper?

He understood, without reservation, that everything Moriarty did he did for a reason. So why, then, had he seduced Molly? Moriarty admitted he didn't like getting his hands dirty, so what had been his aim? Ingratiating himself to Molly hadn't been necessary in order to gain access to Barts, or to Sherlock himself, for that matter. And yet, there was some reason, some reason so compelling that Moriarty took on the task himself. So why?

Moriarty's ruse hadn't served any function other than to hurt Molly. What was valuable about that? He knew Moriarty enjoyed hurting people, but Barts was full of people, any one of whom he could have devastated. Why feign an entire relationship simply to hurt one small, shy woman?

Sherlock had known Molly Hooper since she'd been hired on at Barts shortly after completing her medical residency. The only child of a widowed chip shop owner, Molly was particularly susceptible to men. Sherlock had realized early on that she enjoyed the company of men more than most women, so it wasn't the challenge that had attracted Moriarty to her. She wasn't beautiful, or particularly intelligent or especially outgoing. She was in fact, as plain and honest as a loaf of bread - the _pain ordinaire_ of women.

Not only was she no harm to anyone, she had few meaningful ties to anyone outside hospital walls. Now that her father had died, she had none, really,

Except perhaps himself, but that hardly mattered.

Or did it?

Had Moriarty hurt her solely to insult Sherlock? Had he somehow concluded, however erroneously, that Molly in some way mattered to Sherlock?

Oh. Did she matter to him?

He'd never before given the subject any thought.

~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly woke up the next morning only slightly hung-over. She rolled out of bed and crossed to her fridge in search of orange juice. Pinned to the door with a smiley-face magnet was the kitten-festooned serviette from the night before.

She took it down and looked at it. She'd expected to change her mind in the cold light of day, but no, even with the headache and the furry mouth, it still seemed like a wonderful plan.

All right then, Molly Hopper, she thought, as she crumpled the pink paper and tossed it in the bin, it's time to get on with the rest of your life.

~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

John was gone, off on the most absurd honeymoon in the history of absurd honeymoons: six months - half a year! - of medical volunteerism with his new bride in some dysentery and Ebola teeming African backwater, leaving Sherlock to wither away from boredom and lack of tea.

Sherlock set the last of his cultures into the incubator and locked it down. He had to occupy the next forty-five minutes. He could answer some email, he supposed, but at the moment he just couldn't muster any enthusiasm for that.

He could use a coffee. Molly was probably in the mortuary. If he went down and smiled just right, she'd probably make him one. If he smiled right and said something complimentary, there would probably be biscuits. There hadn't been many biscuits since John moved out.

Molly was, in fact, in the mortuary, but oddly, there was no coffee.

"Afternoon," he said by way of greeting. "Any chance of a coffee?"

Molly didn't look up from her paperwork. "Fresh out, I'm afraid," she replied.

Sherlock sniffed. No, that wasn't right. There wasn't a hint of coffee in the otherwise stuffy air. "Oh, I see," he said. But he didn't, not really.

So he observed.

Beneath her lab coat, she was wearing shapeless beige trousers and a bland pale green top from the girls' wear section of some chain, probably H&M, minimal make-up, no more or less jewelry than was usual, and behaving as if she simply did not care. Not just pretending to disregard him; truly not paying him any mind. At all.

Molly was - Molly was ignoring him. How novel.

He smiled winningly, expecting her to notice. But she didn't.

Fine, he thought. Fine.

"So, Molly," he said, "how was your weekend?"

"Why do you ask?" she said distractedly "You've never cared what I do on my days off."

Sherlock had no idea how to disagree with that. "True enough."

He watched her work in silence for a few more moments, trying to comprehend what was happening. He had not, to his knowledge, insulted her, demeaned her, or belittled her recently, either deliberately or accidentally. So this wasn't about him. This was about her.

"Was there something you wanted?" Molly asked, looking up from her forms. She didn't seem angry; she seemed not to care.

"Coffee?" he ventured.

"There's a Costa up the street." She affixed her signature to another form and set it in what was clearly the 'completed' pile, then reached for another. "I understand they have coffee there."

Sherlock felt as if the world - this dull, predictable, boring little piece of the world - had suddenly spun off its axis. Molly was dismissing him. Molly. Dismissing. Him.

And he didn't like it. Not one bit.

There was no other choice. He'd have to risk it. Interested, but not overly so, friendly, but not too friendly. Something concerned co-worker-esque without inviting too much in the way of revelation. "Molly," he said carefully, "are you all right?"

Molly put down her pen. She lifted her head, tilted it slightly to the left, and looked at him, as if, for the first time in her life, she actually saw him - not his facade, or who he wanted her to think he was, but, unsettlingly, saw him.

And then, she laughed. And laughed. "I'm just fine, Sherlock," she replied as she took up her pen again, and returned to her paperwork. "Just fine."

Baffled, Sherlock decided to call a tactical retreat.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

"Right, love," Mrs. Hudson said two mornings later as they stood on the front step of 221B, "I think that's everything."

"I'm sure it is," Sherlock said. She could tell he was trying not to sound annoyed, but she had to repeat herself. Sherlock was a genius, but he tended to get distracted mid-sentence when it came to things not crime-related. And he had been so distracted lately. For the past few days, every time she spoke to him she got the impression he was listening to a conversation in another room.

"The men will be here to start the renovations Monday morning -" she began.

"And your nephew Steven will be here to supervise," Sherlock finished for her, which ought to be easy enough as he'd now heard it twelve times.

"I hope it won't inconvenience you, Sherlock, but -"

"Mrs. Hudson," he said, "of course it won't. And it's high time 221C earned its keep. I'm sure once the truly exceptional collection of molds and mildews have been banished, you'll have no trouble finding a suitable tenant."

The cab he'd ordered pulled for her as if on cue. Sherlock handed the cabbie her bags - she'd over-packed as usual, but too late now - and opened the door for her. "You have a plane to catch, Mrs. Hudson."

Before she climbed in, Mrs. Hudson turned and caught him in a hug. He hugged back, of course, because it was expected, and because he liked it when she

hugged him, though she knew he'd rather die than admit it. He noisily kissed her cheek for the same reasons. "I'll miss you, dear," she said.

"And I, you," he assured her.

"Try not to get into any trouble." But she knew it was hopeless. He would likely get in more trouble if there was nothing life-threatening going on.

He grinned that shark's grin at her. "Me? Trouble?"

"Oh Sherlock!" she said, swatting him lightly. "I just worry so, dear." And she did, particularly when he was so very distracted like this. Something big was on his mind, but who knew what? She just hoped the house was standing when she returned.

"No need. Everything will be fine," he replied. He shut her door and she immediately rolled down the window. "Enjoy New Zealand." He tapped the top of the cab, signaling the driver to leave. She watched out the back window as he waved but he didn't quite wait until the cab was gone round the corner to put away his smile.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~

Molly's lock was so easy to pick that it might as well have been made of butter.

The bed-sit itself was an Ikea-sponsored nightmare, and, like her day-to-day wardrobe, reflected Molly's general lack of aesthetic consideration. The furnishings were boxy, the accessories, unnecessary, and everything had been chosen mainly because it was inoffensive and inexpensive.

Perhaps - perhaps, on consideration, 'modest' was a better word. This was likely the least costly available accommodation in a passable area of Kensington. Sherlock understood that London was hardly inexpensive, but a pathologist at Barts was not poorly paid, and people managed better flats on similar salaries. Sarah Watson nee Sawyer, for one.

Intrigued, Sherlock pulled out this phone and began a search. It didn't take much looking to find Molly had a rather impressive nest egg. The age of the account indicated she was thrifty from habit, likely as a direct result of growing up with a father trying to make a go of it in a difficult business. Her record-keeping had always been immaculate, so she had likely gotten her start with her father's accounts, taking over the bookkeeping in her teens, if not earlier. Records indicated that in the past few months, she had become even more thrifty animal.

Oh, and speaking of animals, his suspicions about the recently-deceased Toby were confirmed by the photos on the fridge. The animal had suffered some sort of head trauma before coming into Molly's care, rendering one pupil permanently dilated. Sherlock was willing to wager the cat had some accompanying neuro-motor difficulty, too, so he'd probably walked like a drunk; hence the name. Molly's sense of humor appeared to be a shade darker than it seemed at first glance. But, obviously, she was a very, very soft touch. Interesting. How had he not put those two things together before?

The inside of the fridge was the only part of the tiny flat that smelled of cleaning products, suggesting a recent, thorough scrubbing. Even more curiously, it contained little evidence of take-away or Redi-meals. It did have several varieties of fresh produce, as yet unbreached, though. Odd for a woman who, from Sherlock's observations, lived on questionable cafeteria food and an array of chocolate biscuits.

There was a coffee maker but no coffee in evidence, even though he knew for a fact she normally consumed nearly as much caffeine as he did. And on the lowest shelf of the cupboard, there was a recently purchased box of decaffeinated tea. Save for a bottle of gin that was half-empty and sporting at least three months worth of dust, he found no other alcohol, though he also knew for a fact her favorite beer was Speckled Hen and she rarely drank anything else.

The sleeping area was separated from the rest of the flat by an inexpensive, ineffective faux-Oriental screen. The story here was the same - the pull-out bed was cheap and cheerful, the linens inexpensive and of middling quality. Some things were missing from the bedside table - a photo frame, he surmised, and a small trinket box of some sort. The armoire held dull, shoddily-made clothes, mostly from the juniors' department, carelessly crammed too closely together, but then separated by gaps. It looked as though about half the contents had been removed. She'd got rid of a good portion of her wardrobe, and rather recently, but ever thrifty, and ever optimistic, Molly kept the hangers.

Moriarty, of course. The gaps, the voids - these were the holes left when she removed the things that reminded her of him. Sherlock wondered if that was why she was saving more money now, as well. It was just Moriarty's sort of thing; borrowing money he didn't need because wheedling cash out of a girl like Molly was a great deal more difficult than getting into her knickers. If that had been the case, it no doubt had given him a great deal of satisfaction.

Molly, for whatever reason, liked Sherlock. Not a common occurrence, that. In fact, Molly was one of two people in Sherlock's adult life who liked him, not because he solved some problem of theirs, not because they were somehow obligated, not because it benefited them in some way or other, but because, well, because they actually liked him. And Moriarty had set out to soil that.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he hadn't succeeded.

Still, there had to be a reason for it. And whatever had happened, had likely happened here. Moriarty had hurt her. Sherlock was as intrigued and interested as he was by any 'real' crime. And yet, he was puzzled by the vague sensation in his gut that suggested he might soon be sick.

He chose to blame Molly's hideous choice of curtains. Birds, Molly? Really?

And what was this? A beefcake calendar on the back of the bathroom door? Molly, Molly, Molly. Sherlock knew perfectly well she'd blush and stutter to know he'd seen her well-thumbed Mr. January. She was so predictable. And so were her menses, by the look of it, the dates clearly circled in red ink and about 27 days apart. She had been keeping track, but only going back three months.

Sherlock crossed to the table where Molly's laptop rested. The browser history showed that she had been checking out estate agents, looking for very specifically priced properties in very specific areas, with special attention paid to day nurseries and local schools. Petersfield. Bexhill. Hove.

Good lord. Molly wanted to have a child. Not only that, but she wanted to have a child and run off to Timbuktu.

His brain reeled, imagining what her replacement at Barts would be like. Anderson's face kept coming to mind. He didn't care about Molly - she was free to do whatever incredibly stupid thing she wanted. However, it did not necessarily follow that he was going to sit still while her got herself impregnated and buggered off to Hove.

Something had to be done.

~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

The very day the clinic pronounced her both a prime candidate and reproductively sound, Sherlock Homes had to come along and try to spoil it.

He was in the lab, peering into his microscope. A propos of nothing, he said, "Have you any idea of the poor quality of sperm donors in the UK?"

Molly blinked. She was nice to him, nicer, sometimes, than she thought he deserved, so why did he constantly have to do this sort of thing?

"I - what? How did -?" she said, going from confused to furious in the time it took her to draw breath. "Oh, never mind. You always know everything, don't you?"

"Generally, yes," he replied. He was comparing fibers, she thought. Fibers seemed extra interesting to him lately.

"Well, this is - is none of your business," she said, dropping a stack of folders down on the bench with more force than she'd intended. "None. So you can keep your, your commentary to yourself, thank you."

"If you don't mind bearing the child of some spotty-faced uni student who lost a wager," he said adjusting his microscope, "I suppose that's your look-out."

"I suppose it is," she replied heatedly.

"There is, however, an alternative," he said, still continuing to focus on what was in front of him.

"An alternative? What are you talking about?"

Sherlock looked up. "I could father your child, obviously."

That was so unexpected, so utterly mind bogglingly unexpected, Molly sat down on the stool with a thud. "Excuse me?"

"Which part of that did you find challenging, Molly?"

"That's - that's not - not funny," she said. "It's not even slightly-"

"I am not trying to be funny," he responded, scowling slightly. "I am merely stating a fact."

She looked at him, hard, trying to - to - to what? "You're serious, aren't you?"

"And markedly superior to some anonymous tosser," he said. "Furthermore, as a known quantity, I offer several distinct advantages."

"Known quantity?" she said dumbly. "But I hardly know any more about you than I do about the donors they gave me to choose from at the fertility center. I mean I know you, but I don't 'know' know you, don't know your family or medical history, or - or,"

Sherlock rose slowly from the microscope. "The Holmes' came over with William the Conqueror in - whenever tedious year that was, so Norman French, but a long way back. My mother is a bit French, Breton, in fact, and a concert cellist. Had breast cancer in her late thirties, recovered nicely, thank you. Both sides are obnoxiously long lived and relatively sane. Personally, Harrow, Cambridge, published, violin, never married, no serious illnesses or injuries, Type AB Positive," he said. "What else would you consider relevant?"

Mind reeling, she tried to remember what else was listed on the donor surveys. "Childhood illnesses?" she said weakly.

"As the names suggests, I no doubt had them in childhood."

"STI and HIV status?"

All she got in answer to that was a withering look. "Next?"

"Drug use?"

"Oh Molly," he said, all smiles, all dimples, practically batting his eyelashes, "What do you think?"

Molly exhaled hard. This was insanity. Sheer, unadulterated lunacy. "Why, why would you even suggest -?

Molly hadn't ever seen Sherlock utterly flummoxed before. He wrinkled his forehead, then his nose, squinted. He pursed his lips, looked left, then right. He looked left again, then answered, "You've done me any number of good turns in the years I've known you; I thought perhaps it might be time I reciprocated?"

Reciprocated? Recip-? For Godsake, it wasn't even an offer; it sounded more like a question. He didn't know why he was offering, either.

"Thank you." Molly collected her files and rose. "But, no, no thank you."

With as much calm as she could muster, she crossed the lab and made sure she pulled the door firmly closed behind her.

~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~

Later that evening, Sherlock sat back down at his microscope. Liquefaction, check; fructose level, check; spermatozoa concentration, check; motility, vitality, morphology, check, check, check. All excellent.

When Molly came to her senses, he would be more than up to the task.

~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~

The next day, Molly was deep into some poor old man who died alone in his flat. She was weighing his heart, checking for signs of coronary disease, when Sherlock strode in.

Lovely.

She sighed into her mask and wondered - hoped against hope, really - if he'd let the idea of fathering her child go. Part of her wanted to believe it had really been a genuine if ill-considered gesture of kindness on his part, but it seemed unlikely. Kindness and Sherlock didn't often go together, in her experience. His real motivation eluded her, true, but plenty of things in life did that. She'd be happy if it was one mystery that was dropped entirely rather than solved.

Today was going to get better and better, and she was not going to allow Sherlock to ruin it. She was going to go home with her list and choose her child, or at least half the genetic information for her child. She carried on with Mr. Plimpton's autopsy, ignoring Sherlock completely.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Perhaps I failed to express myself clearly yesterday. When I offered to father your child, I believed financial support was implicit," he said, speaking to Molly's back.

Scalpel in hand, she spun around. "What? No. No!"

"Enough for a nanny until he or she reaches school age," he said evenly, addressing a point somewhere on her forehead, "and a decent sized flat in a respectable, family-friendly neighbourhood. In London."

Molly shook her head. This was mad. Even without the money - and he was talking about a great deal of money - it was mad. The point of having a baby of her own was just that; to have a baby of her own. Her baby, her terms, her decisions. "Sherlock, no. No, thank you, I'll manage," she said.

"I see." Sherlock visibly bristled. "So when your child comes to you, and believe me, he will, and asks you who his father is, you'd rather tell him it's some -" he consulted the print-out from the clinic, "- 19 years old, blue eyed, ginger student from Manchester than the world's only consulting detective?"

Very deliberately, Molly turned back to her work. "Yes."

"I would also add that since the chance of my pairing up and producing any other offspring is nil, the child would come into some inheritance."

Molly shook her head. "Again Sherlock, thank you, but no."

After a brief span of silence, Sherlock said, sounding vaguely alarmed, "Why on Earth not?"

Despite her resolve, Molly turned back to him again. "Because, Sherlock, I am - I am over you, all right? As hard as it might be for you to understand, I'm ready to move on. I've lost my father. I've - I've been fucked and fucked over by a psychotic criminal mastermind. Even my bloody cat's dead. The last thing I need - the very last thing - is to be tied, in even the slightest way, to you for the next eighteen years. I'm done," she said angrily. "I'm finished."

"But don't you see, that's ideal!" Sherlock said happily, clapping hands on her shoulders. "You will have the baby you want, I will be able to continue my work unhampered by changes in the Barts staff, and we'll both be free from unpleasant emotional entanglements."

And there it was at long last: Sherlock's motivation. He was, not surprisingly, only concerned about himself, about continued unfettered access to the morgue and the lab and the ability to do whatever he pleased without having to worry about someone with an actual spine succeeding her. For that he was, essentially, willing to trade his own child away.

She felt sick.

She shrugged him off. "I have work to do. Please leave."

Sherlock frowned intently at her. "My offer stands. You should consider carefully before you go to the clinic and receive a sterile pipette full of, at best, some university clod."

Molly looked at Sherlock. He was so polished, so posh, so poised, standing there like he was posing for a men's fashion magazine. She wished she had something heavy so she could hit him with it. Repeatedly.

She would have thought of some way to shut him down once and for all, but by the time she came up with anything, he was gone.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock had returned to Baker Street to consider how to proceed from this point.

What, he asked himself, was wrong with Molly Hooper? There was, simply put, nothing wrong with his offer. There was in fact, a great deal right about it. His plan gave them each what they wanted. And yet, she was being ridiculous. Irrational. Infuriating!

He had thought he had considered this matter from every angle. As much as it annoyed him to admit it, though, he always missed something and he'd obviously missed something here. But what?

Sherlock took up his violin and began sawing out one of this favourite contemplation pieces, Prokofiev's Death of Juliet. Sometimes, he reasoned, the personal touch was best. Molly was, by nature, terribly sentimental. According to every definition he understood, a few milliliters of genetic material in a sterile container was not in any way sentimental. Perhaps that was the issue - her perception of his offer as impersonal.

Perhaps she would feel more inclined to accept his offer if he were to take a more 'hands-on' approach? To impregnate her personally?

He set down his bow. It took him a moment to adjust to the idea. He hadn't had sexual intercourse - non-oral sexual intercourse - since he was at uni. There had always been a level of play-acting involved in pulling before, pretending this or that in order to secure his objective. Once he'd figured out the formula - whom to target, how quickly to proceed, which sort of flattery would be most effective - and he been unerringly successful, the charm had evaporated. The whole game had grown repetitive, tedious, dull.

But it might be worth the inconvenience if it kept his life from being disrupted. If it resulted in Molly staying put, it was a miniscule price to pay.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

The last thing Molly wanted to do was think about Sherlock bloody Holmes and his stupid bloody offer. So, naturally, she thought about it while she was filling out forms; she thought about it while she was cataloguing tissue samples; she thought about while making herself a cup of coffee, then, annoyed at her absentmindedness, pouring it down the drain and reaching instead for that horrid decaf tea. In short, she thought about almost nothing else for the rest of the day.

The nerve of him. She'd already given him her answer, clearly told him 'no' twice, actually. Of course, he had laid it all out so nicely; she could stay in London, stay at Barts, get a bigger flat, and, if worse came to worst, the child - her child - would be provided for, financially at least. Sherlock wouldn't interfere; he was all too obviously not interested in any meaningful way, in her or her baby.

She knew she probably ought to hold tight to her 'no' - would hold tight to her

'no' - but, she couldn't help imagining it, a little. In a theoretical world, when she tallied it all up, choosing Sherlock seemed like a good option. It seemed like a better option all the way home on the Tube. It seemed like the best option while she was watching telly.

The only niggling question was why? It was one thing to offer to toss off into a cup as some sort of pay-back for the favours she'd done him over the years, but it was quite another to offer her money, security, stability to go along with it. Why would he make her such a generous offer? What was really in it for him?

She continued thinking these nagging thoughts all the way down the stairs and all the way to the curry wagon parked down the road from her flat. She thought about it even as the curry man looked at her expectantly.

"Um, oh, um, chicken tikka, please," she said. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a familiar voice behind her added,

"Two, please."

She spun round. Sherlock reached over her shoulder to both pay for, and take the possession of, her meal.

"Well, this, this is, is a surprise," she stammered.

"Is it really?" he asked, wrinkling his forehead. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Ah. I see you've been reconsidering my offer. Good."

"No, I have-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then stepped out of the queue and away from the rest of the patrons. "Yes you have, and sensibly, you have begun to see the wisdom inherent in accepting it."

"Wisdom? There is no wis-" she began.

"Molly, please," Sherlock said is what she recognized as his 'I am quite bored with your dimwitttedness' tone. "We both know I'm right."

Molly looked at Sherlock. Looked him up and down - long legs, curly black hair, big scary brain. There was a reason, a valid biological, evolutionary reason women found some men more attractive than others. If nothing else, Sherlock right about being good biological material.

In that instant, she knew. There was no other choice, not now.

Her nipples were suddenly hard and the hair on the back of her neck stood to attention. Her arms were covered in gooseflesh and her thoughts were starting to circle themselves like a particularly stupid dog chasing its particularly stupid tail. He really was ideal. Gorgeous, stupid, brilliant, and ideal.

Flustered, Molly fumbled in her bag until she found what she was looking for. "Fine. This is, um, this is the clinic's address. We can make an appointment. But -" she hesitated.

"Oh, what now?" he snapped.

"Sherlock, honestly, tell me; Why? What's in it for you?"

Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly to the right. "On balance, it would be to my advantage to have you continue on at your position at Barts as long as possible." With the slightest frown, he added, "I think you underestimate the value of the access you grant me to the mortuary."

"And that's it?" she demanded. "That's all of it?"

He sniffed. "What more could there possibly be?"

Molly thought about it. Well. She supposed, when put that way, she could see what he meant. She felt slightly stupid, now, for questioning his motives, thinking there had to be some deep, dark mystery involved. But no.

Sometimes she wondered why she liked Sherlock as much as she did, especially when he had such a knack for making her feel awful. Other times, though, he was nice, or as nice as he seemed capable of being. He was not a friend, not exactly, but a bit more than a colleague. A chum, someone you could share a meal with in the cafeteria without being quizzed about, well, anything, really, since he'd already worked it all out and dismissed it. Someone you could help out in the lab and never worry about being bored out of your skull. And even if he asked her to do something that didn't seem to make the slightest bit of sense, in the end, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, he was right.

She hoped to God this was one of those ninety-nine times.

"Here's um, here's the card for the fertility clinic," she said, laying it atop the chicken.

"Oh. Is that strictly necessary?" Sherlock asked. "It might be weeks or even months before you could move forward on this. We could just as easily - "

"Oh. Ah. Turkey baster, is it? Or the, um, medical equivalent?" She felt herself flushing. "Of course, of course. There's no reason we can't, um. Um. I suppose I could pick up the necessary equipment from work," she said. Well, that was practical of him, even if the idea of doing it herself made her wince a bit when she considered the logistics.

"Not exactly what I was getting at," Sherlock said. For the first time that evening, looking directly into her eyes. "I was about to suggest a more time-honoured method."

She blinked. "What? Why?" she asked, head spinning. Sex? He was actually suggesting actual sex? With him? With her? That was easily the most confusing thing he had ever said to her, and he had said some very confusing things over the years.

Sherlock, for just a moment, seemed to be at a loss as well. Then he had an answer in his eyes, a gleam, that could have belonged to any man in the world.

She blushed.

"Oh. Oh! You're one of those women who finds intercourse distasteful?" he asked, curiously.

Against her will, the very very, God, VERY good sex she'd had with Jim came to mind. She felt flushed with recalled arousal even as she felt sick at her stomach "No! Not, no, not normally. But, well, since, um, Jim -"

"Ah." Sherlock nodded as if to himself, seemingly lost in thought. Then he smiled. "Well, we'll set you to rights." He handed her her dinner, and his too, kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek and began walking away. "You should be ovulating Sunday," he called over his shoulder. "I'll text you with a location."

Molly stood on the corner, food in hand, wondering what had hit her.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock waited until he turned to corner to express delight. He grinned all the way home, pleased with himself. He had triumphed.

Not that he had doubted his ability to get Molly to consent, not one bit. She might be, for all her naivety, fairly stubborn when push came to shove, but how could she effectively resist him? He was Sherlock Holmes and he knew which of her few, well-labeled buttons to press. Child's play.

Still, regardless of his intellectual prowess, the dishes in his sink seemed reluctant to sort themselves. The only thing more reluctant to sort said dishes was himself. No matter; it wasn't as if they were going to rise up and demand to be heard or launch themselves out a window. He should be, as they said, so lucky.

He glanced through a pile of mail. Bills, bills, bills, junk mail, and, oh look, bills. Dull.

His email provided no relief.

'Dear Mr. Holmes' they generally began:

Is my

husband/wife/employer/employee/Alsatian

cheating/lying/stealing/shagging

my

business/daughter/son/wife/husband/best friend

?

The answer was, in most cases, 'yes,' which the inquirer knew long before they ever set fingers to keys. Oh, the tedium.

He scrolled down the list. Spam, scam, stupidity, utter stupidity, more spam. Three more from . Fiercely tedious, no doubt. Deleted unopened.

There was nothing on the telly - was there ever? He wasn't in the mood to read, despite the stacks of periodicals and journals that were starting to take over every horizontal surface in the flat. Staggering intellect probably wouldn't help with that problem, either. Shame, that

And he wasn't hungry. Or thirsty. Or tired.

Perhaps it was time to take a look in on his cultures?

Sherlock shrugged his coat back on. Just as he did so, a text arrived.

Lestrade. Case. Green man?

Interesting.

Sherlock grinned. The evening was looking up.

!~!~!~~!~!~~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock had been horribly oblique about whose flat it was and it unnerved her.

Not that it wasn't a nice flat. It was a maisonette in Belgravia, for God's sake, and it looked like it had been lifted from a magazine. Far too nice, if you asked Molly. Not that Sherlock had, or was about to.

Molly and Sherlock stood in the painfully tasteful bedroom, looking at each other in the second most appalling silence Molly Hooper had ever been party to in her life. The first had followed the loss of her virginity in her first boyfriend's work van, and had been rather different to this.

Or perhaps not. That had been the unearthly silence that inevitably follows horrid sex; this was, on Molly's part at least, anticipation of the same thing.

And a good thing it would be, too. Bad sex was, well, bad, but it would certainly serve to get him completely out of her system once and for all. She would never be able to look at Sherlock Holmes again without thinking of a terrible awkward and no doubt brief shag one Sunday afternoon, and for that she would be grateful. She would never again lose track of a thought because she was looking at his throat. She would never again get sucked into one of his special projects because he smiled or complimented her hair or gave her that beseeching look. She would be free to eat lunch with other men, other men who might actually be interested in her, which would be nice even if she didn't particularly want a boyfriend. She'd see Sherlock and she'd just wave him off and everything in her life would be simpler. Even if she became pregnant after this one encounter - and statistically, how likely was that? - things would be different. For the better.

Still, to be fair, she tried to encourage him. She had no illusions about being sexy or glamourous, but she'd worn lipstick. She'd purchased new underthings. She'd shaved her legs with extra care. He wouldn't be swept up in a hormonal haze, but he'd have no reason to complain.

She was unbuttoning her top when she noticed him frowning.

"What?" Her hands stilled, and her heart sank. Oh God. Had he changed his mind? Or worse, had this all been some horrible practical joke? "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, still frowning.

Molly laughed nervously. "It's not like you've never done this before, right?"

Sherlock blinked. It was as if he was stuck for a reply. What was that expression? Disbelief? Or - or, had she found him out? Perhaps she was only half right.

"You have done this before, haven't you?" she asked, uneasily. "With a female, I mean."

Then, slowly, a smile that was not a smile at all spread across Sherlock's face. "Most definitely," he said, and his eyes lit up, glittering the way they did when he was hot on the trail of an interesting idea.

She shuddered to contemplate just what that idea might, in this case, be.

"Your powers of deduction leave something to be desired," he whispered as he brushed his lips against her ear lobe. A definite tingle raced down her spine and landed right between her legs, like a buzzer.

Then, still holding her eyes, Sherlock took a step back and removed his jacket. Right on the floor. Molly could hardly believe it; it probably cost more than everything she was wearing combined, and he dropped it on the floor.

Good God, his shoulders were broad. Only, no, not especially broad; they just appeared broad compared to his narrow waist and hips. She'd rarely seen him without a jacket. Now, in just his shirt, it was obvious; Sherlock had the build of a runner, a swimmer, of a damned greyhound.

Next came his cuffs. He snapped off his cufflinks, mother of pearl studs, put them in his trouser pocket and good God, his fingers were so long and his hands were huge. Sherlock was the only person she knew who wore French cuffs. He had to be wearing £1000 worth of clothes, at least. It was ridiculous.

Molly supposed she should be undressing herself, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from him.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. He opened the buttons on his shirt and shrugged it to the floor as well. His skin was white as an Elgin marble and, another surprise - her looked about as hard and carefully carved. You never would have guessed that with his clothes on. Honestly, he had an odd sort of face, but so far, the body was, well, it was perfect.

She looked back to his face. He was biting his lip, and she realized she was biting her lip, as well.

His eyes blazed and he smirked and moved his hands to his belt.

Oh God.

Sherlock Holmes was about to drop trou.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Oh God.

He was lovely. Head to toe, just, just lovely. There were perhaps three ounces of spare adipose on his entire body. Molly saw naked people every work day, young and old, fit and less so. All dead, of course, but not even one of them of them had ever looked like this.

It was so unfair.

She closed her eyes. No need to go to pieces just because Sherlock Holmes happened to be a good-looking prick. Who had a good-looking prick.

She had never seen a penis that actually looked pleasant before. This one did. Why did it have to belong to Sherlock bloody Holmes?

"Molly?" In one step he'd closed in and taken her hand. "Problem?"

Molly shrugged, pulling away. "No. it's nothing. You just, um, you look very nice, that's all."

In less than a second, everything about Sherlock changed. A smile, nothing like the one he'd worn before, softened his face. He turned his head to one side, his eyelids lowered.

He looked flattered.

"Oh. Thank you." His hand went to her blouse. "May I?"

"I - I should warn you," she said quickly, so she didn't lose her nerve. "My breasts are disappointing and my bum is enormous."

"I shall consider myself warned." Sherlock chuckled and without thinking, she hit him on the shoulder with an open hand.

He only laughed harder.

"You also have the most appalling dress sense I have ever seen on a grown woman. What of it?" he asked before dissolving into laughter again.

Molly had enough. "That's it," she said pulling away from him.

In one deft motion Sherlock intercepted her move and kissed her, earnestly, on the lips. "I didn't bring you here to do a photo shoot," he whispered before kissing her again, even more intently, along her jaw, a string of kisses like pearls. His hands lost no time shucking off her top and sliding her trousers off her hips as well.

Oh God, no. He wasn't going to be awful, was he? If his kissing technique was any indication, he was going to be bloody magnificent. Dammit.

She couldn't help it; she moaned into his mouth. Sherlock moaned back, in harmony almost, as he worked to press his entire long body against hers. His hands, both palms and fingers, caressed her back, almost as if he was starving for skin to skin contact.

Her own hands roamed his broad, muscular back, and she had to wonder: how often did anyone touch Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock's hands moved lower, first to her waist, then lower still, till he cradled her bottom. "Not enormous at all," he said between nips at the soft skin below her ear.

Oh God. Her knees actually felt weak. How pathetic could she be?

Molly ran her hands through his hair, while he held her by the bum. She'd always liked his hair, but she'd never realized how thick it was, nor imagined how it would feel curling through her fingers. She inhaled deeply. He was wearing cologne, something light and utterly masculine, and he smelled delicious. She'd stood close to him often enough to know he didn't wear usually wear cologne, not this one certainly, so he'd put it on for her.

Molly felt ridiculously flattered. And then foolish. She was reading much too much into a splash of scent.

That pretty pretty penis was pressing hard against her belly now and his tongue was in her mouth, turning what was left of her brain to mush.

Normally Molly tried to hold back when it came to sex. She didn't want to seem too eager, especially not the first time. She enjoyed sex, frankly, but too much enthusiasm could put a man off just as quickly as too little, in her experience. There was always a need to preserve some mystery, to leave the audience, as they say, wanting more.

But she was never going to be with Sherlock after today, was she? This show was strictly 'one night only.' So what was the use in trying to maintain appearances? Sherlock was clearly not going to be crap in bed, not one little bit, and she was not going to lay there like a dead mackerel and let him think she was. He might not care one way or the other, but she certainly did. She had her pride.

She pulled her mouth from his and gave into her mad, mad thoughts. The taste of the skin in that unnamed place between his neck and shoulder made her feel tipsy.

Sherlock moaned - actually moaned - in response. She liked that. She liked that very, very much.

He arched his back, fairly pressing her face to his bare chest. She became intimately aware of his absurdly good aroma; not the cologne, but the scent under the cologne, the insanely heady smell of his body. How was it even possible that he smelled so good? She twirled her fingers round first one flat nipple and then the other, and feeling bold, drew her right hand round to that fantastic cock of his.

Nice. Every bit as nice as advertised.

She didn't know if she could do this properly if she reminded herself who she was doing it to. The thought was almost paralyzing. She shut her eyes tight and caught his pale nipple between her teeth.

Her eyes still closed, she kissed her way down his nearly hairless chest. Honestly, almost perfectly hairless - he had perhaps twelve hairs round one nipple and fourteen round the other, abdomen, crisp black pubic hair -

"Molly," he said gently, then sounding almost strangled, "Molly, that's hardly necessary. Our purpose is fertilization."

Yes, it was, she reminded herself. So what? She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. "Indulge me," she said.

He didn't answer right away, and for a mad moment she thought he was going to refuse. "By all means, proceed," he half-whispered.

Keeping her eyes on her objective, she smiled. She was good at this. She knew she was good at this. And lucky, lucky Sherlock was about to find out she was good at this, too.

As softly as she knew how, she brushed the tip of his foreskin against her lower lip.

He inhaled sharply.

Once, twice, three times, her tongue gently brushed the head of his penis where it peeked from under his foreskin.

His right hand wrapped itself in her hair.

Molly relaxed her jaw, and swallowed him to the hilt, only struggling a moment halfway down. Ever so gently she moved her tongue from side to side. And again. Three times. And -

"Molly, stop. Stop!" he shouted, pulling away. He looked at her as if she was something he'd never seen before. "That, that was almost over before it began," he said, breathing hard.

Molly nodded, pleased with herself. She hadn't meant for it to go that far, only to make sure he remembered her when this was over.

"I guess this proves it, then," he said.

"Proves what?"

"What they say about convent school girls," he answered with a wolfish grin. "Oh, don't give me that look, Mary Magdalen Hooper. It's so obvious you might as well wear a placard."

"Should I be insulted?" she asked, and wiped her mouth again.

"Absolutely not." He sat down uneasily on the edge of the bed. "Skill is infinitely more intriguing than some arbitrary proportion of bosom to backside."

"Thanks." Suddenly, she felt stupid and was very aware that she was naked. "I think."

"Come here," he ordered, in that way of his, gesturing for her to sit between his legs on the bed. "Good, now -" He turned her, gently, so she was facing away from him. "Good."

She did as instructed, and was rewarded by lips on her neck and hands on her breasts. His skin was very warm, his touch, very precise. It was fabulous.

Then, with deliberate care, almost as if he expected her to stop him and was trying to give her fair warning of his intent, Sherlock slid his hands from her breasts to her sex.

More than once she'd had to deal with men who were all thumbs when it came to manual stimulation. Sherlock wasn't even looking, and yet his touch was delicate and light and made her want to beg for more.

"Tell me what you want, Molly," he teased.

"More," she whispered, because whispering was all she could manage.

One long finger ran, feather light, up the cleft between her labia, and tickled, bloody tickled, threateningly close to, but not quite touching, her clitoris.

"More. Of. What. Exactly?" She could feel his smile against her shoulder.

"More of that, you bloody great git," she said, at her wit's end.

He laughed. Not just a chuckle, but he laughed out loud. "Oh, Molly, I can do much better than that."

And with that, he scooped her up and tossed her, literally, onto the bed. It was a move that shouldn't have been at all sexy, but, like everything with this infuriating man, it somehow was. She'd have resented such rough handling if she still had two functioning synapses to rub together.

He gave her sex an appraising glance. "May I?" he asked.

"God, yes," Molly said.

She couldn't say what he did with his tongue. What she could say was that, whatever it was, it sent hot and cold waves spreading from her sex across her body, until her hands grabbed fistfuls of white sheet and her toes curls so tightly it almost hurt. A sensation that should have been, but wasn't at all, painful pricked her clitoris, and she felt as though her brain was a wet flannel that had been wrung out and left to dry. She could have sworn that she was flying, levitating at least, as if her body as rising of its own accord off the huge mattress. But that couldn't be right, could it?

Probably not. She found she didn't care. She just wanted for it to never, ever end.

Sherlock was still peppering her thighs with kisses as the madness subsided.

"That was amazing," she said before she could come to her senses and shut up.

Sherlock licked his lips with feline speed, and laughed. "Oh, that was just to whet the appetite." He pulled her by the legs until she was under him. He had laughed more in the last three quarters of an hour than he had in the entire him Molly had known him.

And now he was above her, weight on his elbows on either side of her head, that friendly-looking penis resting between her labia. She couldn't see it of course, but she could feel it, its weight pressing pressing pressing down on her. What she could see was a feral gleam in his quicksilver eyes, and a grin - a very pleased grin, complete with dimples - on his striking face. Sherlock looked - he looked happy.

It was easy to forget how much larger than her he was when he sat across from her in the cafeteria at Barts. It was impossible to ignore the size of him when he was looming over her like this. Impossible, and a bit overwhelming. Usually, she preferred smaller men, blokes closer to her own size. She felt as though she was drowning in Sherlock. He seemed to be everywhere, touching her everywhere, except the one place she wanted it most.

He kissed her again. And again and again and again, until each individual kiss blurred into one. She had never imagined, when she agreed to this, that he would kiss her so much, so hungrily, or so sweetly. That he'd even want to.

"May I?" His voice was low in her ear.

There was no question what he was asking.

"Yes, please," she squeaked. It was the best she could manage under the circumstances.

And then, oh yes, there he was.

And, oh Christ, was he.

With no barrier between them, she had imagined she would be able to feel every ridge, every vein. In reality, all she was aware of was how incredibly hot he was, how hard, moving inside her. She spent a few moments lost in sensation, trying to catalogue every breath, every heartbeat, every nanosecond that passed between them. Too soon, but not nearly soon enough, she felt his hand slip deftly between their bodies, unerringly targeting her clitoris.

"Good?" he grunted.

Unable to speak, she gave one sharp nod.

Then, in an instant, Sherlock's hips stilled, even as his fingers picked up speed, or so it seemed. All she really knew was that she had wrapped her legs round his hips, and when she regained her common sense, she was calling his name.

He smiled, nuzzled the side of her neck. Then he kissed her hand. It was strange and sweet and utterly endearing.

It must have shown on her face, because as soon as his eyes locked on hers, something happened, and his open, easy smile dropped like a stone.

Suddenly, the Sherlock Holmes she'd known all these years was back. And he didn't look particularly happy to have returned.

He pulled out gracelessly, pulled away, wasn't even willing to look at her.

"Now or never, I suppose," he sighed. "Do or die. Up on your hands and knees, Molly, there's a girl."

He barely made contact, hardly touching her anywhere besides the places where it was necessary. He entered her from behind and ejaculated after a few long, artless thrusts.

He collapsed on the bed beside her like a detonated building and pulled the bed clothes over himself demurely. "Put this under your bottom," he said, handing her a pillow.

Humiliation burned its way thorough her. She wanted to leave. She wanted to leave right now. As soon as she could find her knickers, she was leaving, and putting this whole sad, sorry mess behind her. What the Hell had she been thinking?

She sat up quickly.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock sounded genuinely alarmed. "You're significantly decreasing likelihood of fertilization. Lie back down."

Stunned, she didn't move.

"Now, Molly," he said imperiously from the other side of the bed. "On your back. Do it."

Molly hesitated, and hated herself for it. She didn't have to listen to him. She didn't have to do what he said. Even if, in this instance, he was right.

As quickly as she had sprung up, she retreated, and she pulled the sheet up to her neck.

Sherlock stretched, no longer either quite as stiff nor quite as smiling as before. "It's been forever since I shagged without a condom," he said as if they were discussing the weather or a really interesting skin sample.

"I never have," she said. "Well, never before this, obviously," she answered, sounding mousy and stupid even to herself.

"Really?" he asked, sounding truly interested. "Mary Magdalen Hooper, I'm surprised at you."

"Cut it out, Sherlock," she said.

"Cut what out?"

"The name," she responded.

"That is your name, is it not?"

"Yes, technically, it is," she explained. "But Mary Magdalen Hooper is my 'you're in big trouble now, my girl,' name. Molly is my, oh, I don't know, my 'God's in his heaven all's right with the world' name, I guess you could say."

She turned her head, observed his profile. He was staring up at the ceiling, and she could practically hear him calculating. What he was thinking didn't bear contemplation. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"What did your mum call you when you were in big trouble?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. "Would 'You, young man, are just like your father' count?"

Oh. She'd obviously hit a nerve, a very raw one, at that. Before she could apologize, Sherlock leapt from the bed, taking the coverlet with him. "Flat on your back, remember," he said, "until at least two o'clock."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"To forage," he answered. He took her hand, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss it again. Instead he gave it a gentle squeeze, then released it.

"I, oh-" she began.

"I'll be back," he assured her, his voice echoing down the corridor.

After that, it was all mumbling, and, not for the first time, Molly wondered where the hell they actually were. She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, Sherlock was dressed, his hair was wet, and he was thrusting a bottle of overpriced water in her face.

"Wake up, Molly," Sherlock said, his ridiculous curls still dripping. "Drink this. There were biscuits but I ate them while you were asleep. No loss on your part, really, they were mediocre at best. We should be out in the next three quarters of an hour."

"All right." Molly nodded numbly but didn't move.

Sherlock looked at her expectantly.

"Privacy? May I have some?" she said, hardly awake.

"Of course," Sherlock answered distractedly, and bowed out of the room.

She couldn't find her socks for some time, or her knickers at all, and with Sherlock pacing up and down the corridor, Molly's nerves went from frayed to fried by the time they stepped out of the building. When he raised his long arm to hail a cab, all she wanted to be was back in her own flat, alone.

"I'll take the Tube," she informed him.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock said. "You've an increasingly noticeable semen stain growing on the front of your trousers."

She felt herself blush. Oh, things just kept getting better.

"I'd rather not," she told him quickly. "Cabs're too dear. It's okay, I'll put my jacket on my -"

Sherlock's forehead wrinkled fearsomely. "No, I will pay for the cab. You will get in the cab. You seem to take pleasure in making very simple issues absurdly contentious."

"I don't - I don't want a boyfriend," Molly blurted out, much to her own combined surprise and horror. "I don't need a boyfriend."

Sherlock sucked a breath in through his teeth. "That's convenient, as I have no interest in being anyone's boyfriend," he said irritably. "Certainly not yours. I do, however, want you to get in the cab before we lose it. Now."

They were silent the entire ride, staring out opposing windows.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!


	2. Chapter 2

Ollie hadn't always been like this. Once upon a time she'd been Hollis, and she'd had a mum and a dad and a home. For a while, she had even had a dog.

That was a long time ago, though, long before her little problems grew up into big ones, and it seemed most days like all that happened to a different person in a different lifetime. Now, she spent her day, or a good part of it, waiting for a lucky break.

She knew she'd hit it when she saw Him coming round the corner. Him. Sherlock, with his long black coat and his long white face. Strange bloke. She'd done some work for him before - nothing fancy, mind, just keeping an eye out. Easy, and paid decent.

She mustered her best smile. "Spare change, love?"

He smiled, nodded once, and handed her two tightly folded notes. 50 quid each.

Tucked inside, there was picture of a woman, and an address. In large blocky letters, it said:

THIS IS UNTOUCHABLE. SEE THAT IT REMAINS UNTOUCHED.

"Can do, Hollis?" Sherlock asked.

Simple enough, that. She'd get the word 'round. "Consider it done, love," she replied.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

In Sherlock's experience, sexual partners fit in a few distinct categories: those who behaved as though they were starring in a pornographic film, acting the entire time for an audience that wasn't there; those stunningly beautiful men and women who maintained they'd done their part simply by showing up; and professionals, for whom the entire event was simply another assignment, an exercise in expending no more effort than absolutely necessary.

Sex with Molly, surprisingly, hadn't fit into any of those categories.

She had impressed him by not caring if she impressed him in the slightest. He'd half-expected sex with Molly Hooper to be about as thrilling as a dish of day-old porridge. He was proved wrong to a degree he had seldom, if ever, enjoyed quite as much.

Molly had been enthusiastic, both about giving pleasure and receiving it, which Sherlock found was a pleasant, unexpected surprise. Sexual interaction was so often a tiresome, tedious hall of mirrors, mingled as it generally was with status and image and power and pretense. Molly, it had turned out, wasn't concerned with any of those things; she wasn't concerned about how she looked while riding him; she wasn't concerned with how she appeared with his penis in her sweet, wet mouth; she wasn't concerned with anything but sensation, both experiencing it and sharing it. While she was engaged in sex, she honestly wasn't thinking about anything but the sex. For a woman who seemed to second guess herself at every other turn in life, she was fearless and utterly unselfconscious in bed.

Or so it appeared, he reminded himself. 'One' was hardly an adequately large sample from which to draw any meaningful conclusions. And the only remedy for that was a larger sample. Repeated experimentation.

Put succinctly, more.

The way the encounter intruded in his thoughts continuously in the fifteen hours since the event, Sherlock assured himself, could be explained by the limbic system. "Strictly sexual," Sherlock told the skull. There was nothing more to his perseverating than that. Unless, perhaps, one counted the way the silence in his flat echoed like a bell, or how his habit of speaking aloud with no one and nothing but an archeological artefact to answer him, only made it seem worse.

This was ludicrous. Her skin could not possibly have been as soft as he recalled. Perhaps she wasn't, objectively speaking, as responsive as he seemed to remember, either. Memory was notoriously unreliable, after all, and it had been years since he had vaginal intercourse, much less touched a woman, beyond contact of his penis with the requisite lips, teeth, tongue, and inside of mouth. It was his imagination.

All he needed, no doubt, was a second experience with her to dispel these ridiculous notions.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

The great benefit of living on your own was that you could chose to do what you wanted, when you wanted. Which is why and how Molly found herself frying Mars bars in the middle of the night.

It wasn't something she did often - she didn't need the calories, certainly, and it wasn't nearly as easy as it had been when she was younger and had round-the-clock access to a commercial fryer, but still, there were times when nothing else would do. And this, for whatever reason, was one of those times.

She was enjoying herself. She was waiting for the oil to heat and the Mars bars to thaw a little - too soft and they melted into a gooey, formless (but still, quite edible) lump, too hard and they cracked into a dozen or so pieces (again, perfectly edible, if a bit tricky to get out of the oil), listening to radio, singing along with a Beatles tune that had been one of her father's favourites.

She rarely played the radio, thanks to the couple directly below her, who had a penchant for alerting the landlord if she left anything on the landing, or stepped loudly in her own flat after 10 pm, or, it seemed, breathed too loudly. Still, she could hear it well enough to dance a bit as she mixed up the batter, and resolutely did not think about the day before.

Oh, all right, maybe she did think about the day before, just a bit. She wished she hadn't enjoyed it so. She wished Sherlock hadn't been so warm. Or so cold. She wished she had never done it at all and that she could do it again on a regular basis.

She opened the fridge, and decided to fry up every mini Mars bar in the packet, all twelve of them, in one go. It didn't mean she was going to eat them all, only that she had the option.

The first batch of three was draining on a plate and the second batch sizzling away in the fryer when there was a knock at the door.

"Yes, yes, I'll turn it down," she called out, not bothering to walk to the door. She hated everyone in the building in that moment, she truly did. She had no idea what the couple above her did for a living, but it obviously didn't require early mornings. Each and every night they woke her, either shagging or shouting, sometimes both in rapid succession, sometimes, she swore, simultaneously. She didn't mind other people having lives even if she barely had one; she just didn't particularly like having to listen to it day in and day out. Especially when the downstairs neighbor had the nerve to complain about her being noisy.

And then there was a second knock.

"I told you, I'll turn it down!" she shouted, utterly exasperated.

There was a pause and then a low voice called out, "It's Sherlock. May I come in?"

And Molly felt as though she was going to be ill. Or sprout wings. One or the other. Perhaps both.

Not sure what else to do, she opened the door, plate of fried goodies in hand.

"Mars bar?" she offered.

Sherlock, looking askance at the poor little things, lined up on the plate like a row of suspects, asked, "What day of the week is it?"

"For the next 37 minutes, it's Monday," she said.

"In that case, thank you," he said, and took all three. "Your clock's off, by the way," he said absently.

Then, with a terrifying wail, the fire alarm sounded. There was no fire, but her second batch were burned beyond recognition and flat was rapidly filling up with smoke. She had to open all the windows to keep from asphyxiating.

In ten minutes, all that remained was lingering smell of burnt sugar, chocolate, and grease, and Sherlock had eaten all the Mars bars he'd taken from her. Git.

"Was there, um, was there something you wanted?" she asked.

"Not exactly," he said, licking chocolate from the corner of his lip. It reminded her of the day before and she tensed involuntarily.

Molly caught her reflection in the window and mentally groaned. Shapeless polka blue dotted pajamas and a manky yellow dressing gown she'd had since uni, no make-up, her hair in a messy plait, fuzzy lime green slippers that clashed with everything else and that even she knew were ugly. A virtual fashion nightmare.

What did he want, anyway? Why was he at her flat this late at night? Had he changed his mind? Did he want his sperm back? She felt slightly unwell trying to imagine how he would even go about that. Trust Sherlock to find a way if anyone could, though.

Sherlock picked a book on waterborne pathogens off her tiny kitchen table. The place was a tip, she suddenly realized, and Sherlock, always so poised and polished, was probably a neat freak. He'd probably want his sperm back on general principles alone. She looked at the pile of dirty dishes in her sink and decided she probably couldn't blame him.

"It is statistically very unlikely conception will occur from a single act of coitus," he said, not looking up from the book.

At first, she thought he was actually reading from it. Then she realized that no, he really wasn't.

What was he saying? Did he -? Was he -? We're they - ? What?

"Excuse me?" she squeaked. "I - oh."

Sherlock closed the book with a resounding snap, then grinned his scary, thrilling grin at her. "Knew you'd get there eventually," he said, and gestured toward the sitting area. "Shall we?"

It turned out she hadn't misunderstood at all, not even a little. They did it right there on the floor. Twice. She was sure the neighbors must have heard; he groaned with great enthusiasm, and she growled his name at least once. Probably twice. Maybe a third time, too.

She spent the night on the floor where he left her, her hips propped up on a lumpy IKEA cushion, nascent rug-rash stinging her knees, too tired and confused to even contemplate pulling out her sofa-bed.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

An hour after leaving Molly's flat, he paid a whore too much for the freedom to touch her arms, abdomen, thighs, the small of her back, the skin behind her knees. It wouldn't have taken that long, but he had to wait until the girl, a fair skinned nineteen year old at his usual place, was available. She worked for a reputable agency, and he'd requested someone who was both clean and drug-free, and the manager knew better than to try to fool him.

She called herself Claudine, though God alone knew why, and she was conventionally pretty, he supposed. While it was obvious she thought him a freak, she also didn't care, which made her perfect for what he had in mind.

While almost a decade Molly's junior, Claudine's arms were rougher than Molly's, even at the wrists. Her thighs had subtle bumps from some sort of depilatory. Her belly was easily more muscular than Molly's but the skin covering it was not even close.

He wondered for a moment if her lips were rougher as well, but on consideration, it was a distasteful idea; kissing a whore smacked of some sort of desperation, even as an experiment. And he was not desperate.

He grazed the small of her back gently with callused tips of his fingers in the way that made Molly come just short of orgasm. All he got from the whore was a fish-eyed stare. Compared to Molly, she might as well have been a lorry driver. When he touched her, his penis didn't even twitch.

He took a cab back to Baker Street, the taste of Molly still on his lips.

Without even pausing to consider, he knew he would return to her flat in less than twenty-four hours.

He needed more data, that was all. More data.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

That next night she went to bed early. Sherlock didn't even knock, or if he did, she didn't hear him. He let himself in, though how, she did not know. In any event, she woke up with him standing over her.

"May I?" he asked, his hand on the duvet.

"I - oh. Um." It was a bad idea, a very bad idea, but she nodded, and flipped the duvet back inviting him in. She was an idiot.

In thirty seconds, maybe less, he was on top of her, his tongue straight down her throat, tearing at her clothes. Not just figuratively either; she could hear the sound of fabric ripping. It was ridiculous.

She loved the way he had of moaning into her mouth; she loved the way his body felt; she loved the way her body felt when he touched her. It seemed beyond belief that the only reason he was doing this was to give her a baby. What was he playing at? What was she playing at, for that matter, letting it go on and on?

Then he did something that involved his tongue and her left nipple and, oh God. That's exactly why she was letting it go on. He was good at this.

She was a terrible person for using him this way, wasn't she?

Or was he using her? She couldn't quite work it out, especially when he dove down under the covers to lick and suck at her like - Jesus Christ! - like that. He kissed her again and she could taste herself - sour and raw and primal - on his lips. This time he didn't smile at all, the only expression on his face was one of hunger.

"I've no intention of becoming your boyfriend," he whispered in her ear between kisses.

"G - good," she stuttered. It was probably the stupidest thing she'd ever said. She wondered if there would be a trophy.

"I'm not your boyfriend," he said, mouthing first one collarbone, then the other.

"No," she said, clutching him to her as her orgasm ripped through her. "You aren't. Never."

He looked into her eyes. His expression unreadable, unnerving. Then, as if having made up his mind about something, he kissed her, gnawing and nipping at her lips until they were bruised, sore. She was sore everywhere, and tingling, not because he'd been rough, but because he'd been thorough. Very, very through.

After, lying on her narrow fold-out bed, he took her hand in his, exactly as he had done before. If he had been a fighter, Molly's dad would have said Sherlock was telegraphing his punches. She knew exactly what was coming - he was about to turn from steamy hot to veins full of ice water. Again. Then he would put his big black coat over his trousers with the now missing button and be gone. Again.

Until he felt like coming back. Again.

They couldn't continue on like this. It was mad. Her heart couldn't take it.

"That ought to do it, Sherlock," she said, firmly but kindly, talking to him the way she would to a dog or a small child. "I don't think you need to worry about coming back tomorrow. Or - or, at all."

Without a word, with barely a sound, Sherlock rose and redressed, his back turned to her. There was semen trickling down her thigh as she watched him go.

He didn't even bother to shut the door behind him.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was used to settling. She was used to disappointment. She was perfectly prepared for her period to come so she could come up with a new, possibly better, plan. Trying again with Sherlock seemed inherently dangerous in some way she didn't quite have the power to articulate. She'd had one chance with him, and now it was probably gone.

So she waited. And then she waited a bit more. She made a point not to think of what could be happening, or what was absolutely not happening, inside her body. She carried on every day as if she was not waiting for the best or worst news of her life.

All the while, Sherlock seemed to make himself scarcer and scarcer, until it had been two or three weeks since she'd seen him. Which wasn't bad really, because since they'd - done what they'd done - well, ever since that, he wasn't the same.

He didn't joke with her. He didn't tell her that her clothes, or hair, or make-up were all wrong and in desperate need of a change. He didn't speak to her if he passed her in the hall at Barts. He didn't come into the mortuary at all when she was there alone, and if one of the other attendants was there with her, he was in and out as fast as he could be with as few words exchanged as possible. And even then, he just glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then turned his head.

She hadn't realized how playful he was with her until he wasn't anymore. Either it was her fault for telling him she didn't need to have sex with him again, or it was her fault for having sex with him in the first place. She wasn't sure which, but clearly, it was her fault.

Then, it hardly seemed to matter, because he wasn't there at all. And even though she still hadn't had her period, it finally seemed safe to brace herself for disappointment and go to the doctor's.

They told her she was pregnant. A child was growing inside her. She was so surprised by her life going to plan for once that she had no idea what to do next. She supposed in the end the answer was the same for good shocks as it was for bad ones; put one foot in front of the other, shower, clean your teeth, go to work, do what life puts in front of you, and the rest will sort itself out.

It had always worked before; she had faith it would work again.

She couldn't be blamed if she lay in bed at night, her hands on her unchanged belly, thinking of Sherlock.

~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~

D.I. Lestrade had long been of the firmly held conviction that firmly held convictions were the number one enemy of a successful police career. The stronger the belief, the stronger the likelihood you were going to start with piles, ulcer, and impotence, and wind up in hospital covered with wires, listening to the erratic sound of your own heartbeat on a machine. Despite his reservations, he was increasingly absolute in his belief that Sherlock-bloody-Holmes needed a fucking-24-hour minder. Or, make that, a new one.

He pulled his car into the space near 221B Baker Street and steeled himself for the coming storm.

"Sherlock?" he called, knocking twice before letting himself in with John's old key. John had handed it to him the night before he left on his honeymoon and told Lestrade to hang on to it, just in case. Lestrade wasn't exactly comfortable letting himself in, but it was more convenient than hoping this was the day Sherlock could be bothered to answer the damned door.

The front hall looked like a building site, lined with boards and paint cans and power tools of all descriptions. A fine layer of dust had settled everywhere. One pair of footprints led up the stairs, but none led down. The pain in the arse was in, then.

Sherlock was in his living room, pacing frantically, swirling up a cloud of dust. He was surrounded by stacks of printouts and photos, some of which Lestrade recognized, some of which he did not. The walls had been pulled into service too, and lurid crime scene shots clashed with the nasty wallpaper that struggled to peek out from beneath them. Green Man case, looked like.

"Sherlock?"

The arse-pain in question looked to be in the middle of some sort of vertical epileptic fit involving strange arm movements and heavy breathing. A moment later Lestrade realized Sherlock was only sneezing. Three times. In rapid succession. Enthusiastically.

"Sherlock!"

"What? Oh. Lestrade." Sherlock tucked his handkerchief away and crossed to the wall display, running his finger over first one photo, then another, squinting. "Why are you here?"

"You're not answering your-" he began, but was cut off by another sneeze, this one even seeming to surprise the sneezer.

"- phone." Lestrade looked at him. Sherlock was flushed, glassy eyed, agitated. Which, really, pretty much described Sherlock on any given day. The sneezing was new, though. "You all right? Sick or something?"

Sherlock shot him a withering look, but the effect was ruined. "Bloody dust," he said, produced yet another handkerchief, and wiped his eyes "I've half a mind to prorate the rent until the renovation is completed." He sneezed twice more for punctuation.

"Maybe you should go -"

Sherlock, still pacing, gave a growl of frustration. He rubbed his hands through his hair, leaving it in wild disarray. "What am I missing? The facts are right there - right there! - so what is it I'm not seeing?"

"Sherlock." Lestrade moved into the path Sherlock was pacing. "Stop a second, yeah?"

Sherlock did so, but the look he gave Lestrade was lethal. "What?" he bit out.

"Why aren't you answering your texts?"

Sherlock waved dismissively, sniffed haughtily. It would be more effective, Lestrade thought, if Sherlock's nose wasn't actually running at the time. "Why should I? It's not as if I work for you."

And it's not as if you work 'with' me most of the damned time, either, Lestrade didn't say. "I've had three calls - actual calls, Sherlock - from John -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the name. "How very nice for you, Inspector -"

"He's concerned. You're practically surgically attached to your phone, so yeah, he's worried you might be dead or kidnapped or something since you can't be bothered to answer his texts or emails."

Sherlock sneezed into his handkerchief again. "Surely the good doctor has other things to occupy his time," he replied, his voice flat. "I don't see what concern it is of his, or yours for that matter."

No, Lestrade imagined he probably didn't. As smart as he was, as brilliant, Sherlock often had to have the obvious pointed out to him. Often the pointing out involved a large plank coming into contact with his hard head. "He's your friend?"

"Spare me," Sherlock snarled, but his contempt was tempered by yet another sneeze.

"Sherlock -"

"John Watson used to live here; now, he does not. I am in no way concerned with or for him, and I would thank him to pay me the same courtesy." Sherlock looked Lestrade up and down quickly. "Why are you acting as his errand boy, anyway? No criminals to fail to catch today?"

Not for the first time, Lestrade thought about hitting Sherlock, hitting him hard, very hard. If he actually believed the crap Sherlock was spouting, he just might.

"Yeah, well, maybe I was concerned, too."

"Why?" he asked petulantly. "Am I not doing the work? Have I not solved your cases?"

"It's not always about the work."

"It's only about the work! The work is all that matters to me, Lestrade, all that ever has and all that ever will, so you can spare me your -" he sneered, "- concern."

Lestrade let out a long slow breath. Then another. "Look," he finally said, "we've known each other a while, you and me, and near as I can tell, John's the only friend you've got in the world."

Sherlock snorted.

"So now you're behaving like a six year old 'cause he didn't take you along on his honeymoon?" Lestrade said. "Grow the hell up."

With that, everything stopped. Sherlock, suddenly very still, blinked at him once, twice, said nothing. Lestrade waited for the venom, braced himself for the vitriol that accompanied one of Sherlock's tantrums.

It never came.

Instead, Sherlock set his jaw, walked around Lestrade, reached for his coat and scarf, left without even putting them on.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he called after the man's retreating form. "For chrissake, will you -" Lestrade's chin dropped to his chest as he heard the front door slam.

"That went well," he muttered. He could let himself out.

!~!~!~~!~!~!~!~!~

There was only one thing for it.

John would shout if he found out. When he found out, actually; Sherlock would be sure to tell him personally because he didn't want to miss the look on his face. It would be priceless. Surely, John would shout, then become quiet and understanding, then shout again. It would be like he was acting out some script on dealing with the relapsed drug addict. How expected. How cliched.

Molly, if she ever cared to find out - and he supposed it wouldn't be too difficult, someone was bound to mention it, someone who hated him and enough people did - would be horrified. Perhaps she might even weep. Not that it would mean anything to him, either way. Something in him quite wanted to see her tears, actually. Something in him likewise recoiled at that part of himself. Sherlock wished they'd both shut up.

There was only one cure for roiling of brain and belly, and it was derived from the leaves of the coca plant.

Sherlock took the first cab he saw, pulled out his phone, started texting. It took some doing, as all his old contacts were either too wary of him after his long absence and public connection to the police to be persuaded, or they were out of business, but eventually the protege of an old supplier was willing to meet him at a discreet location.

As always, the man with the drugs was late.

Sherlock sat on a bench intended for the elderly and infirm for some time, bristling with anticipation, awaiting that feeling, that glorious sensation, when the cocaine hits the bloodstream and the brain lights up like an explosion. For a brief, shining, nearly unquantifiable stretch, his brain would quit trying to tear itself apart from the inside and the whirring, insatiable, unnamable thing that ailed him would stop.

The trouble, of course, was that each time he got high, the shining moment was a hair's-breadth briefer than it had been the time before, waning a little each time, each time less brilliant, until finally there was no relief at all. None whatsoever. And all one was left with was the ache for more, like a bottomless chasm.

And that wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part, he now remembered, was how quickly the whole drug business became boring. That must be what a job felt like; showing up every day whether you wanted to or not, knowing everything you would do tomorrow was some variation on what you had done the day before, stretching before and behind into infinity and monotonous sameness. Sitting and waiting. Waiting and sitting.

And the other addicts were stupid, to a man. And woman. Possibly the only ones more stupid than the other addicts were the dealers. Stupid and smug and holding your antidote in the palm of their asinine, self-satisfied hand. Anderson missed his calling, if you asked Sherlock, but no one ever did unless there was a gun - metaphorical or otherwise - to their head.

And dear God, how he hated the hierarchy of the drug world; the etiquette was worse than tea with his paternal grandmother. Boooooring. Booooring. Booooooring. The very thought made him want to shoot something.

And then there was Mycroft. Speaking of things that needed shooting. He'd need an elephant gun to make so much as a dent in his brother's ego. How he hated him most of all when he was trying to be compassionate. Someone please spare him the pseudo-patriarchal pseudo-concern. He was like some nightmare of a headmaster, trying to convince you that his only motivation was concern. And there was no way, once he got going again, that he could hide it from Mycroft. Or anyone beyond the casual observer, for that matter. He knew that much from experience.

Uncomfortable and boring. The worst of both worlds.

And Mummy. He didn't want to think about her response. He couldn't bear the thought of disappointing her yet again.

He didn't personally care what Lestrade thought of what he did or didn't do, but the D.I. certainly had it in his power to make his investigations much more difficult. Lestrade would use the drugs against him if he possibly could. He would probably be the one to tell Molly. Warn her off him, as it were. It made him want to snarl.

None of that for him today, thank you.

He turned and walked away just as the dealer was coming into view.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~

In his entire life, he had never taken anyone - male or female - to bed who mattered to him in the slightest. It had been a sound practice, one he should never have given up. The more he walked, the more he thought perhaps the entire dilemma he was currently facing could be summed up in one word: Molly.

Not that he cared. He didn't, not really. He didn't care in the slightest that she hadn't contacted him, even though he had been actively avoiding her. Why should he?

She wasn't especially pretty. She wasn't especially bright. The sex was - good, but still, it was just that - sex.

Ah. Of course. What was needed was an inoculation against the insidious charms of Mary Magdalen Hooper. And he knew exactly what that was. Something she could never be. But what? Which specific jab would render him immune?

Something male, perhaps?

But no. The very thought left him bored and listless. There seemed something stultifyingly predictable about another male body at the moment. Too familiar. Too boring. Too wrong, at present.

Then it occurred to him: Molly would never be gorgeous. Or tall. Or convincingly blonde, for that matter. So, something - something opposite. Something rail-thin and statuesque and magazine-cover lovely. And very, very blonde.

Take that, Molly Hopper.

He punched up his place for that kind of thing on the phone. Hardly any different to ordering Chinese. Did he want to dine-in, take-away or would he prefer delivery? They hardly need ask; Sherlock hated dealing with clean-up. He was a habitual diner-in.

And his selection?

Something in fellatio, he should think; he'd found he disliked anything more involved or intimate now that he was out of uni and off drugs. He preferred being able to shut his eyes and pretend there was no other human being involved, mainly because anything more than simple release was self-indulgent and he had indulged himself far too much of late.

No, that wasn't quite right. He had indulged Molly, and it had brought him nothing but irritation.

F., v. tall, v. blonde, v.v. pretty – he texted with one hand, as he hailed a fresh cab with the other. His eyes were itching like the blazes again, and he could feel his sinuses throbbing with every heartbeat. Mrs. Hudson would regret her renovations.

The cab was stifling, and the building where the brothel was housed was freezing, though by the time he rode the lift to the twenty-third floor, it was hot again.

It went the way it was supposed to go: the proprietor greeted him, ran his credit card, took him to a thoroughly overdone room. There, a woman who looked like she'd just left a photo shoot for a toothpaste advert and was on her way to one for over-priced undergarments, was waiting. He examined her carefully. In her early to mid twenties, she was buxom - artificially so, of course - expensively blonde, improbably tanned, teeth-capped, with her lips, cheeks, and chin, all surgically enhanced if not actually improved. When she turned for him, he noticed that even her backside had been augmented, and that, he thought unexpectedly, must have hurt a great deal. Her height was, perhaps, the only honest thing about her. In her heels, she was just a shade taller than he.

Exactly as requested.

He was, however, completely unmoved by her. In fact, despite her unquestionable beauty, she was, possibly, the most horrid female he had seen in his life. And with his head pounding and his brain swirling and the stifling ambient temperature, no effort of will - on his part or hers - was going to change that perception. There was no way he was letting her anywhere near him.

He tipped her generously and left without so much as touching her.

And went straight to Barts. It was well past midnight, now. He could glower at his recalcitrant cultures in peace. He would be safe from Molly for hours.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly had come to work exactly on time, fixed herself a cup of horrid decaf tea, and was about to check on some cultures she had going in the lab, when she saw him. He was hunched over a microscope, in his usual place, the place he'd been conspicuously absent from for almost seven weeks. His eyes flicked over her like a pass from an airport scanner wand.

"Oh," she said. She suppressed the urge to apologize - what did she have to apologize for, after all? - turned on her heel, and headed back to the relative safety of the mortuary. She could check on those cultures anoth-

"That was inconsiderate of you, not to mention ungrateful," his voice, lightly hoarse, boomed behind her. "Why didn't you let me know I'd been successful?"

Despite her best intentions, she spun around. "Excuse me?"

"I help you get what you wanted and now you treat me like yesterday's news," he said, primly clearing his throat.

"Ah. You're right. I'm sorry. I'm pregnant," she said. "Thank you for your, um, help."

He folded his arms across his chest and made that noise in his throat again, but said nothing. His eyes, however, spoke volumes. Many volumes, a whole encyclopedia's worth. If looks could kill, she'd be really impressively dead.

He wanted a fight, she realized. Why on Earth he wanted a fight, she couldn't imagine, but he wasn't going to get one, not in the middle of a hospital corridor, deserted or otherwise, and not from her. It was difficult enough, just standing there, having to talk to him with her heart racing and her mind churning. For God's sake, she could hardly look at him without imagining his naked body.

"What exactly do you want, Sherlock?"

"Some consideration," he replied, as if it was patently obvious that that was his due, and she was being nothing but difficult.

Molly exhaled with more force than she'd intended. She didn't reply because, what could she say? What exactly did she owe him? He'd taken her to bed on three separate occasions and given her perhaps a dozen orgasms. He'd badgered her into allowing him to father a child he wanted nothing to do with. What did he want from her?

He was scowling at her with a perfect pitchfork drawn in the crease between his eye brows.

Molly took a deep breath. "You've done your part. You've made it clear you aren't interested in the child or in me -"

"So what? Is that what this is about? Love?" Sherlock said 'love' the way other people said 'scabies.'

Molly blinked. Actually, she could not have been more surprised if he 'had' said 'scabies.' "What?"

"Do you know what romantic love is, Molly? It's the fraud human animals use to dress up some of their less attractive urges. It's the lie they use to gild the unappealing truth that they want to chain some lucky woman to a cooker so they can have a shag or a fry-up at their beck and call."

Molly was baffled. Sherlock always made sense, even if it was only the very strange Sherlock kind of sense. But just then, Sherlock was not making any sense at all. She shook her head, hoping to clear it, but it didn't help one bit.

Sherlock pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and sneezed exuberantly. "It's a pretty fiction. Lies built on deception built on deceit, and nothing more."

"I - what? Why -?" And then something occurred to her. "When I was seeing Stephen -"

"Oh please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes which somehow set off a coughing fit.

"No," Molly said, "No. When I was seeing Stephen, and come to that, Paul from accounting and Brian - every time I was seeing someone, you felt like you had to ruin it, didn't you?"

"Don't lay that at my doorstep," he said with another cough. "You would have rid yourself of them on your own, eventually. All I did was speed the process along. If you're going to blame anyone, blame Quick Eddie."

Molly suddenly felt as though her face was on fire. "You leave my father out of this - this - whatever this is, Sherlock."

"Thus illustrating my point," he said, grinning that horrid grin. "None of the mealy-mouthed specimens who came sniffing round here had a chance at measuring up to the man who brought you up single-handed. And the sacrifice, to go from being a moderately successful if moderately shady prize fighter to running a chip shop -"

She couldn't help herself. She hit him. With the flat of her palm, as hard as she could, across his stupid, smug face.

And Sherlock didn't block her. He didn't even try to block her. She'd seen him snatch falling beakers mere inches before impact without even looking. He had some of the quickest reflexes of anyone she'd ever known. And he not only let her slap him, but he looked completely stunned.

And then he looked pale. Even paler than usual. He seemed unable to muster a scowl or a sneer or any expression at all. He inhaled sharply, then coughed like he was trying to expel a lung.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she said, horrified. She moved forward, not sure if she was going to hug him or hit him again, in all honesty, but he pulled away from her. "I'm sorry, I'm so sor- "

"Oh please." He coughed again. "I've had - I've had more painful paper cuts."

Sherlock - beautiful, stupid Sherlock - stood there, her hand print rising red on his cheek, coughing and sneezing and trying to drive her mad.

Molly sighed. It was futile. It was hopeless. She was a fool ten times over to have thought there was any way she could have had such a delicious cake and eaten it, too. Stupid, stupid Molly.

"Sherlock," she said, as kindly and evenly as she could, "I don't want to fight with you. I don't want to be yelled at. And frankly, I don't want to endure any more of this, this, rubbish. I need to know exactly what you want from me."

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

Molly shrugged. "You know everything. It never occurred to me I'd need to tell you. I assumed you knew. I assumed that was why you were avoiding me."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and shook his head. "No."

He looked so dear, and sad, standing there. The slap had done no damage, but she'd managed to hurt him, anyway. She felt awful. Gently, she reached up and pressed her hand against his cheek.

Good God, he was burning up.

"You've a fever," she said, moving her hand to his forehead.

"It's dust," he replied. "Allergic reaction."

"It's not dust," she said. "Allergies don't cause fever." She looked at him with a clinical eye. The skin around his eyes was dry and discolored. His eyes were literally fever-bright. "This is probably the flu half the staff seems to have gone down with."

He shrugged. "Perhaps."

Molly pinched his wrist. It took longer for the colour to come up than it should have done. "Sherlock, when is the last time you slept or ate? Have you had any fluids lately?"

"Don't know, Wednesday, I think," he said. He looked at her, glassy-eyed. "Can you do something for me?"

Molly didn't hesitate. "Of course."

"There's a sandwich in your locker, the one you brought yourself for lunch.

May I have it?" he asked.

"I? How-? Never mind," she said. "You need fluids and paracetamol, and you need rest. Come back to mine and I'll see if we can't rehydrate you."

Sherlock frowned so exuberantly is was nearly a pout. "Your bed is awful, like you've stuffed the mattress with half-bricks and hand guns," he complained. "I want to sleep in my own bed."

"Then I'll take you to yours, then." She sent a quick text to her department head, telling him she was not at all well and that she would see him on Monday.

Sherlock swayed slightly from side to side. "There's nothing to eat at my flat," he said. "Unless you're a cannibal. You aren't, are you?"

"Not yet," she said. She took him gently by the arm and directed him toward the lift.

He coughed again. "I think I'm ill, Molly," he wheezed.

"I know you are," she answered. "And yet, I still seem to put up with you."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Why did Molly have to bring him home on the Tube? Was it some form of punishment? Was he not suffering enough? Sherlock's head was churning with each lurch of the train, swimming. Or, or drowning was more the thing. The last time he felt this wretched, John had had to force a lungful of the Thames out of his chest.

In desperation, he shut his eyes and laid his head on Molly's shoulder. It was tiny and bony and utterly useless as a pillow. Could she do nothing right?

"Here," she said, and guided his head toward her lap. That was better, or, at least, no worse. He should have been annoyed by Molly's fingers toying with his hair, but he couldn't muster the energy. And it was not unpleasant. His only real complaint was that he would like a bit more. She needn't be so stingy with her touch. He curled up tighter to get more of himself on her lap.

He did not want to be her boyfriend. And he did not want her to be his girlfriend. But that didn't preclude her taking on certain functions normally assigned to a girlfriend. For instance, it was nice to have someone look after him when he felt as though he were going to die.

It was also very easy to get food from Molly, much easier than it had been with John, because Sherlock didn't have to ask first and listen to the put-upon sighing and the lecture about something-or-other before the food appeared. Molly fried things. She made him sandwiches. She made terrible coffee, but, she was a clever girl and she could learn. She'd probably be willing to make toast. When one was sick, there was porridge with brown sugar and toast and weak tea. There was a rule or ordinance or something.

Right before his mind began to wander again, it occurred to him he hadn't even begun to explore the number of things Molly Hooper could do for him.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly had overcome Sherlock's urge to wander in his semi-addled state, coupled with intermittent knee-buckling and dizziness, and herded him to the Tube. He had his head on her shoulder and then in her lap most of the trip, but it was purely out of necessity. She felt as if she were being half-smothered by a tall, miserable furnace.

Sherlock's part of Baker Street was clean, quiet, and seemed free from all the homeless that had recently started migrating into her neighbourhood. His flat was in a well-kept white brick Victorian above a sandwich shop. The hallway was practically an obstacle course of construction materials, but when she opened the door to his flat, what she saw was a palace.

It was huge. It had big, bright windows. It had more than one room.

It also had quite a few gruesome crime scene photos pinned to the walls, but that was to be expected; Sherlock lived there, after all.

Sherlock lurched to the sofa and collapsed into a fit of long, wet coughing. His condition had deteriorated rapidly. His eyes were glassy and so bloodshot now that they looked like they were on fire. She couldn't be certain by touch alone, but it seemed as if his fever had risen, too.

"Paracetamol?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"No, Sherlock, I meant, do you have some here?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Dunno. That was John's purview . Cupboard, perhaps. Or in the slippers under my bed."

"Why would -? Oh, never mind. Your fever has to come down," she said, feeling his pulse.

Sherlock looked at her through one slitted eye. "You're a pathologist," he said sniffling.

"I'm aware of that," she answered. "I think maybe we should get you into a lukewarm bath first."

"Say please," he said. "And keep firmly in mind I am not, nor do I wish to be, your boyfriend." The declaration was followed by a rattling cough.

"This conversation is getting old, Sherlock," she said. "Can you sit up?"

"Of course I can." He coughed violently. "I'd just rather not."

"Doctor's orders," she said. "The bath will cool you. I don't think you want to have a seizure."

"You have no idea what I want," he mumbled into the cushion beneath his head.

Molly couldn't argue with that. She genuinely had no idea, and doubted he did. "You're right. I don't believe brain damage is high on your list, though." He looked awful, and consequently, she felt awful. That made no sense, even to her, but there it was. "Please Sherlock?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Fine." He rose imperiously, staggered a few feet, and swayed like a birch in a gale. "Um, Molly," he said.

"It's okay, I'm here." She looped his arm around her shoulders. "Do you have a stethoscope?" She'd suspected pneumonia by the listen she'd taken at Barts, but she wasn't used to live people with solvable health problems, and he hadn't exactly co-operated.

"Kitchen, possibly," he choked out between coughs.

"Of course; where else?"

"John was listening to the walls."

"Was he?" she asked the same way she would ask a two year old to explain a fairy story.

"Don't patronize me, Dr. Hooper," Sherlock said, a fresh wave of irritation in his voice. "He thought we had mice, so he was listening to the walls."

"Silly me. Bath tub?"

Sherlock gestured with his chin and she helped him stagger down the hall.

His kitchen was almost larger than her entire flat. And a complete tip, filled mostly with hazardous waste and lab equipment. Though it took some doing, she found two stethoscopes; one in the knife drawer, missing its ear pieces, and the other, missing the diaphragm on the chest piece, under the kitchen sink. She cannibalized them to create one functioning unit.

She returned to find Sherlock still sitting fully dressed on the closed toilet, exactly as she'd left him.

"I'm going to open your shirt so I can hear what's going on in there," she said too brightly, fumbling with the buttons. This reminded her of her brief, horrible pediatric rotation. Thankfully, Sherlock hadn't decided to make life too difficult. But with Sherlock, it was always a possibility.

He was trying to work the rest of his buttons from the bottom up but having little success. "I seem to be in need of some assistance," he said, interrupting the awful sound of something thick and wet sloshing about inside his lungs with every breath. She might not have treated a live person in years, but she could still recognize pneumonia.

"With?" she asked.

"My clothes."

Ah. Well, that was reasonable, considering what a mess he was. Still she wasn't entirely comfortable with the notion. She reminded herself of Hippocrates and nodded bravely.

"Right. One second. Let me -" Molly started the water.

Watching him try to help her, it was evident he was as weak as a kitten, and she felt a little guilty for being anxious at all. Shoes, socks, trousers, pants, and shirt fell to the tile floor. He was too feverish and ill to look even slightly sexy, which was both a relief and a worry.

He made a pained noise the moment he stepped into the water. "That is not lukewarm!" he railed. "That is ice cold! You are trying to kill me!"

"Don't be such a baby," she scolded. Taking a flannel from the airing cupboard, she soaked it and squeezed the water onto his back and shoulders. He hissed in discomfort and began to shiver. She added a bit more warm water to the mix and ran the cloth over his chest and neck. "How's that?"

"Miserable," he said, leaning into her touch. "Awful."

"You really aren't well, are you?"

"I don't like this," he groused. "I am never sick."

"Apparently, that's not true." She wiped his forehead with the flannel and was distracted to see his hair instantly spring into a mass of curls. His hair was nice. She wondered if her-

She was brought back to attention by Sherlock's right hand on her left breast.

"What're you doing, Sherlock?" she said trying not to squeak.

"Manipulating you?" he said, then paused as if searching for a word. "From the Latin, manipulus, meaning handful. That was meant to be a joke." He squeezed once. "Not good?"

She moved his hand away. "Not especially good, no."

Sherlock sighed. "John usually tells me when I'm getting these things wrong. Or, rather, he used to tell me. I wish he were here now. Well, no, I don't. That would be bloody uncomfortable, as John's straight as a die and he would probably throttle me if I grabbed him by the breast, even as a joke."

Molly decided to ignore whatever it was Sherlock was going on about. She applied gentle pressure to his shoulder, noted he was still too warm. "Can you turn a bit this way?"

He complied. "Am I doing this wrong? If I am, you are going to have to tell me. I'm not a mind-reader. You're going to have to tell me when I'm getting it wrong or we'll never come to an agreement."

She ran the flannel over his back and across his nape. "What sort of agreement is that?" she asked.

"One in which I am not your boyfriend," he said definitively.

She shook her head, wondering why he kept harping on this particular topic. "You are not my boyfriend," she said. "I am not your girlfriend. Can we leave it at that?"

"That doesn't mean -" He stopped. "Whenever I'm not working on a case, you could - visit. Or perhaps, I could visit you?"

Molly paused. "Why?"

Sherlock seemed to consider this. "To watch telly?"

That - that didn't sound right. "You enjoy watching telly, do you?"

"I despise watching telly," he said. "It's a euphemism."

"Yes, I thought it might be." She dipped the cloth into the tub again and wrung it with extra zeal. 'You're ill, Sherlock, this is the fever talking."

"And you're blushing, so you're considering it, at least," He bent his knees suddenly and slid silently beneath the water.

She waited for him to re-emerge. He did so, coughing furiously. "Bad idea, that."

"You won't even remember this conversation when you've had a good night's sleep."

"Want to wager?" he asked her, no trace of a smile on his face.

Molly sighed. "Stop it. I don't like being manipulated, Sherlock."

Sherlock's hand rose slowly, deliberately from the water, moving inexorably toward her breast.

She slapped his wrist lightly. "That is not what I meant, and you know it."

He grinned slightly, then his expression turned serious. "People manipulate each other almost constantly," he said. "A child wants a sweet, so he says his 'pleases' and 'thank-yous .' A husband wants absolution, so his wife receives a lovely diamond bracelet. A politician wants power and privilege, so he lies and lies and lies." His eyes narrowed. "You want me to father your child, so you tell me over and over that I may not."

"That's not exactly what happened," she countered.

"That is exactly what happened. You know how I love a challenge," he replied. "Or you want someone to make tea and go to the shops and tell you you're amazing, so you stupidly take a flatmate you neither need nor really want. And then he bloody shoots someone to save your life the day after you meet, and you decide that's a valuable service, more valuable, perhaps, than the tea and the shopping combined, so you only ask him to pay a fifth of the rent because you know that's all he can afford. Then he decides he wants you to hate him until the end of time, so he marries a perfectly dull little doctor and buggers off to Africa."

"I don't think that's why John married Sarah," Molly answered.

"Same outcome," Sherlock assured her. "People complain about me manipulating them, but that's not really the problem, is it? The problem is that I sometimes forget to manipulate them, that I forget the 'pleases' and 'thank yous' and the lies, lies, lies that everyone expects. And then, when I do remember them, I'm sneered at and told my behaviour is vile."

"Sherlo -"

"Look, I do better when I have someone around. Someone to talk to and argue with and to tell me what I am doing wrong and remind me not to be quite so constantly horrible. I had a skull for company, but Mrs. Hudson keeps hiding it. Then I had John and -" he growled in frustration, "Oh hell, forget I said any of this." He bounced the back of his head against the hard rim of the old tub.

"Hey! Don't do that!" she said, putting her hand between his head and the cast iron bath. "Stop it. You'll concuss yourself."

"Oh, don't be such a girl, Molly."

"I'm not being a girl, I'm being a doctor."

"A girl doctor, then," he said "John Watson would let me bash my brains out if I took a mind to."

"You miss him a lot." It wasn't a question.

"Not when I aim carefully," Sherlock replied. "And yes, that, too, was a joke. John would have liked that one. He likes jokes with shooting. Really, he just likes shooting." He sobered. "John didn't think I was vile. Usually."

"Budge up," she said.

"I'm fairly certain my breath is terrible at the moment or I'd kiss you. Then you'd be certain I was vile."

"You're not vile." She reached in and pulled the plug from the drain. "Not entirely so. Let's see if we can get you into bed."

"You remind me of Evie, you know," he said as he climbed unsteadily out of the tub. Even with a towel wrapped around him, he was shivering, and his body was covered in gooseflesh. "She liked me even when I was unspeakably vile. And I was. Often."

She wrapped a second towel around him, rubbed his upper arms trying to warm him. "Who is Evie?"

Sherlock gave her a puzzled frown, then coughed. "Will you make toast?"

Molly nodded. "Yes, of course." She wondered who this Evie might be. Some minor saint, if what he said was true.

She tucked him under the duvet, and refused to be jealous of the simple mention of a name. It wasn't as if Molly was his girlfriend.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

For the next twenty-four hours or so, Sherlock was miserable and confused and inhabited that fitful realm between sleep and delirium. Molly dosed him with antibiotics and expectorants and rehydration drinks that tasted bad and left a gritty residue and turned his tongue ridiculous colours that made Molly grin when he stuck out his tongue, awaiting her thermometer.

After that, there was weak tea and porridge and toast in bed. And Molly came each time he called, finally leaving the bedroom door wide and confining herself to the kitchen, so he wouldn't lose track of her and feel the need to call out again. It was pleasantly like being small, like having a nanny again, like having Evie back.

And then he slept.

He wasn't sure when he had last slept so deeply or for such a long time.

When he finally came to and stumbled groggily toward the shower, the first sight that met him was Molly, asleep on his sofa, her head under her arm much the way a sleeping bird will block the light with one wing. She looked tired and drawn. He hoped she -

He hoped nothing, he told himself. Stop it.

Unsure what he should do, he laid his dressing gown over her in place of a blanket, and took a very long, very hot shower.

By the time he emerged somewhat more hygienically acceptable, she was gone.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock was uncertain but he had the feeling, itching like an uncomfortable shirt, that there was something he ought to say to Molly. Unfortunately he had no idea what that was. Thank you, obviously, because that was the done thing, but beyond that -

He knew there was something.

Later in the evening, feeling more like a human, but not quite like himself, sprawled on the sofa, reading, he stumbled onto a strange bit of information. Well, that was interesting. Like a dawning light, it occurred to him Molly would find it interesting, as well.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

It was 3 a.m. when Molly's phone twittered like a bird. What made her think that was a pleasant ring tone, again? She nearly knocked it off her nightstand trying to get it.

It was a text.

From Sherlock.

A text from Sherlock. In the middle of the night. He must have had a relapse.

Molly snapped awake and read the message.

IN THE LYMANTRIA DISPAR MOTH, THE MALE OF THE SPECIES IS ABLE TO SMELL AN UNBRED FEMALE FROM A DISTANCE UP TO 12.8 KM AWAY. APPARENTLY THIS ABILITY GRANTED THEM FROM SOME EVOLUTIONARY ADVANTAGE DESPITE THE FACT THAT SOME VARIETIES OF THE SPECIES ARE FLIGHTLESS.

-SH

Molly blinked at the screen, then blinked again. Either he'd sent it to the wrong phone, or he'd lost his mind. Whichever it was, Molly had no idea what it was supposed to mean or what she was supposed to do about it, so she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

When Sherlock was five years old and Mycroft was home for the summer, exercising the prerogative of every older brother, Mycroft spent his time tormenting his much younger, much more highly-strung brother as much as he could. It reached the point where any other small boy might have been moved to tears of frustration. But Sherlock, ingenious even then, found his retribution right at hand. The cheeky little twerp peed on Mycroft in front of a house full of people.

It had been the thirty-five year old Sherlock's equivalent to bring some little bit of stuff he had picked up in his travels and cavort like a rutting hyena in Mycroft's own bed. Stuffing her knickers in the biscuit tin was a bit 'de trop', though. It was more like the sort of behaviour Mycroft had witnessed when Sherlock was at uni and having sexual congress with anyone, male or female, student, faculty or scout, who expressed a faint interest.

In a way, it had gone full circle. A strange and lonely boy, Sherlock had always been alienated from his peers, and yet Mycroft was fairly certain he longed for some degree of acceptance. At uni, he seemed to find some measure of pride in initiating sexual congress with all his prettiest classmates, regardless of gender or mental capacity, more as evidence of his ability to pull than anything else. Still, it kept him occupied for a time.

After that came the drugs. It was a terrible period for all of them.

Sometimes Mycroft wasn't sure if his brother's 'consulting detective' phase, with its death-defying danger seeking, wasn't the worst of all.

He had expected some sort of acting out on Sherlock's part on the heels of John Watson's marriage; truly, they all had. Mycroft had been on metaphorical pins and needles since John's engagement was announced, waiting to see what form his brother's outrage would take. The knickers-in-the-biscuit-tin business was something of a let-down considering all it might have been.

Sherlock hadn't shown up for Christmas dinner coked out of his mind in years, and he was no longer violating pieces of cored fruit in the dining hall, so what did Mycroft have to be concerned about?

As it turned out, quite a bit.

Sherlock had, quite recently, done something far more unnerving; he'd gone to see his solicitor. In that tiny bulldog of a woman's office, Sherlock had made preparations for, of all things, a child.

For years, he had been trying, but Sherlock had finally succeeded in utterly shocking his elder brother. Mycroft was hard pressed to imagine any pursuit his brother was less suited for than parenting.

It went without saying this potential child was no accident. Sherlock made mistakes, yes, but he did not have accidents. As far as Mycroft was aware - and Mycroft was aware of quite a bit, thank you - Sherlock hadn't had sex with a woman who wasn't paid for her services since uni. Depending on whom you asked, Sherlock either couldn't be bothered with relationships, or lacked the capacity to maintain one. Mycroft fell into the former camp on most days, but not, by any stretch of the imagination, on all of them

Sherlock wasn't exactly discriminating, but no one could say he wasn't careful. Mycroft was certain, if there was a child coming, it was because Sherlock had planned it that way.

But what on Earth for? In a lifetime of terrible decisions, this looked to be the worst Sherlock had ever managed.

The knickers in his biscuit tin were clearly those of the poor unfortunate woman he had used for the purpose, but who was she? How did it all fit together?

It took some leg work, not on his part, of course, but they found an interesting candidate for the coveted title of Ms. Biscuit Knickers. It appeared a doctor in Barts mortuary had been looking into artificial insemination, then cancelled her appointment at the fertility clinic, though she had made two visits thus far to her obstetrician.

This same female doctor had been observed entering 221B Baker St last Friday morning and not leaving until late Sunday afternoon.

A careful review of camera footage revealed Sherlock had made two nocturnal visits to the doctor's building in the days following his fouling of Mycroft's nest, and since then, had made several late night visits to stand across the street and ponder her building. Or perhaps to admire the architecture; with Sherlock, one could never be entirely sure.

Surely he hadn't had his head turned by a pretty face? Not Sherlock.

Perhaps it was a matter of personality, but Mycroft doubted it. Would Sherlock even be able to identify a personality if he came across one? Chemical components, yes, complex calculations, without a doubt. But charm, allure, charisma - these tended to sail past him the way crows fly over a wheat field.

There was only one thing for it; speak to the woman, explain what a terrible idea she had been sucked into, offer a substantial amount of money to ease her way into a solution, medical or otherwise.

When Anthea ushered a tiny grey sparrow of a woman into the busy cafe, Mycroft's first thought was that his brother was playing a very strange game. She had to be one of the least memorable women in central London. Utterly plain. Mycroft had taken it as granted that the woman his younger brother chose for himself would be beautiful, but this woman was - not.

His second thought was that she was no John Watson; she was frightened out of her tiny little brain.

He rose reflexively "Dr. Hooper?" he said, taking her hand gently. "My name is Mycroft. Please, won't you join me?"

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Mycroft." she said nervously.

"No," he explained enunciating carefully, "Mycroft Holmes. I am Sherlock's elder brother."

That did something interesting to the little doctor. She flushed at the mention of his name and made a little wringing motion with the edge of her blouse. "Ah, I see. I was told Mr. Holmes wanted to speak with me, and naturally I thought Sherlock was being - peculiar. He's - I mean, he can be, can't he?"

"He most certainly can," Mycroft replied. "Please, Dr. Hooper, don't be afraid. I'm here, for you, really. I'm here to help you." He was as reassuring as he had it in him to be.

"I don't understand what's going on here, Mr. Holmes," she said.

How peculiar. The more he studied her, the greater was his impression that she had no artifice to her whatsoever. Most people, in an awkward situation, will try any number of techniques for seizing control, or, at least, protecting themselves. Dr. Mary Magdalen Hooper did not attempt a single one of them.

Why did she strike him so strangely, this little person he could have passed on the street a thousand times and never noticed? She was like a piece of landscaping, an extra, a bit player in her own life. So what was it about her that was sticking in his mind like a thorn? What was she?

This had the potential to be far worse than he had imagined.

Then he recalled something. Anthea had reported, that Moriarty, prior to his spectacular end, had toyed with Dr. Hooper's affections as a slight to Sherlock. Mycroft had dismissed the information immediately as highly suspect, but he could see now something different, something that would appeal specifically to his brother, hovering about Dr. Hooper like miasma. Was it just that she was a good, honest person?

Oh, this was very bad.

"Dr. Hooper, I believe you to be a person of singularly pure motivation. As such, it would be difficult to appeal to your baser nature, so I am forced to be direct. What will it take to induce you to end this?"

"This?" Dr Hooper asked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"All of it, Dr Hooper. Your dalliance with my brother- " He would have gone on but she interrupted him.

"There's no dalliance," she insisted. "I'm not, um, we aren't -"

Oh, so she could lie. That was reassuring.

"Really? Oh, I am so sorry," Mycroft said, reaching into his pocket. "It must be some other woman's underthings my brother left in my biscuit tin, then."

They were the new, white, Marks & Spencer cotton bikinis, worn only once, and it was as plain as day she had bought them specifically for the encounter. Mycroft set them out neatly beside the salt and pepper.

"Ah. So that was your flat," she said, blushing furiously.

"Quite."

Dr. Hooper shut her eyes tight, but confessed easily. "Yes, those are mine. But you've misunderstood, Mr. Holmes. I wanted to have a baby, and Sherlock, um, volunteered. That's all there is to it. We're, uh, friends."

"My brother doesn't have friends."

Dr. Hooper's frowned. "Yes he does. I'm his friend."

"Just his friend?" Mycroft asked. "Is my brother aware of that?"

"Yes, quite aware." Dr. Hooper nodded, but there was something in her expression - regret? Or no, perhaps that was guilt; Mycroft did not know her well enough to say for sure, but certainly is was one of the two. Interesting.

She wasn't lying in this, at least. She genuinely believed that there was no affair, no dalliance, no relationship between Sherlock and herself beyond a friendly one. But clearly, too, she was wrong.

"Have you any idea what you've got yourself involved in?" Mycroft said. "If you're wise, you'll start this - project - over again, with someone else."

"This project?" She hadn't like the way he'd phrased that one bit, but there it was.

"Your effort to have a child, Dr Hooper."

Dr Hooper's eyes narrowed. "How - how is this any of - of your concern, Mr. Holmes?"

"I am trying to explain, in as gentle a way as I have at my command, that there is no way this can end well for any of the parties involved. It would be best to nip this venture in the bud. Medically, if necessary."

She gaped at him like an idiot. "Excuse me?"

He took a sip of his tea. "I am, needless to say, willing to offer considerable compensation for any inconvenience."

Dr. Hooper stared at him, opened mouthed, a few moments longer. Good, he was getting through to her.

"This is the most - most - horrible thing I've heard in my life. You claim he's your brother -"

"Oh, I assure you, he is," Mycroft answered. "Ask me anything. I know Sherlock Holmes better than any man alive."

She narrowed her eyes. "Who is Evie, then?"

"Evie? How should I know?" Mycroft said. "Historically, my brother treats his sexual partners with the same concern he shows for his loo roll. Would you like to know about his criminal record? I can tell you anything you'd like about that."

"His criminal record?" she asked. "Are you serious?"

"Quite," he replied. "My brother has multiple arrests, mainly for possession of Class A drugs, but, being a doctor, I am sure you realize this is what one expects with an addict. Most of the breaking and entering charges were eventually dropped, as were most of the assault charges. Not all of them, though."

Dr. Hooper said nothing, which Mycroft took as his cue to continue.

"To be fair to him, though, he was diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder when he was nine years old. In your association with him, you've probably noticed he's a bit, how shall I say? Off? He prefers to style himself a sociopath, of course, but none of that makes him 'Father of the Year' material, wouldn't you agree?"

The waitress appeared with their tea, then. Dr. Hooper's hand was shaking as she poured sugar into her cup and stirred longer than was necessary.

"And have you noticed more homeless lately? Near your flat, on the route to work, where you shop? It's not your imagination. My brother has a network of paid informants throughout London. Through them, he is watching your every move."

She blinked. "Sherlock barely knows I'm alive most of the time. If I am not standing directly in front of him, I'm not sure he remembers I exist. Why would he be watching me?"

"I can't say, Dr. Hooper. I can only tell you that he is. In this entire matter, I find his motivations - opaque. Whatever feelings my brother has, he does not have the means of expressing them appropriately. Would it surprise you to learn you're the first amateur he has had a sexual encounter with since leaving university? You must realize that if you do continue to carry his child, his fixation will only grow." Mycroft put a third sugar in his tea. His dentist would never let him hear the end of it.

"Mr. Holmes -" Dr. Hooper began.

Mycroft cut her off. "Speak of the devil," he said. Mycroft was strangely reassured to see Sherlock race through the door in high lather.

"Molly!" Sherlock ordered from the door of the cafe, like the spoiled child he was "Don't listen to a word he has to say. Every syllable is a lie."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

"So, he's not your brother?" Molly asked. Her brain was absolutely reeling.

"All right, not every syllable," Sherlock conceded, fuming. He pulled out a chair and all but threw himself into it. Her turned to Mycroft. "What right have you to interfere?"

"As always, Sherlock," Mycroft replied in the even, modulated tone he'd used throughout, "I am concerned about you."

"Oh, spare me your bloody concern, Mycroft," Sherlock replied. "My personal life is, and should remain, eternally, of no concern to you. I can manage Molly quite well on my own."

Molly didn't like the sound of that. "Manage me?" she squeaked.

"Like you managed her knickers?" Mycroft gestured toward them with his cup.

Sherlock's smile was feral. "Ah, yes. Thanks for the use of your flat."

"Wait, wait," Molly tried to interrupt, "manage me? What do you mean-"

"By the way," Mycroft continued, "which among the many conquests of your misspent youth was Evie?"

"Evie? Why in God's name are we discussing Evie?"

"Dr. Hooper said you'd mentioned the name, presumably in the throes of, um, well, is passion the right term?"

"Wait, I didn't say -" Molly said.

Sherlock growled. Molly couldn't believe it, but he actually growled. It was shocking. "I am an adult, Mycroft," he bit out.

"And are you planning to behave like one any time in the near future?"

"What? Shall I follow your shining example, brother dear? Always interfering, always sticking your bloody great nose in where is doesn't belong? 'Bored today - where shall I start a war, tra la la!' Please."

"No, of course not. I think you should go on playing detective and living off your trust fund for the rest of your days. Gainful employment is beneath you, after all. Mummy must be so proud."

"But -" Molly kept trying, but she couldn't get a word in edgewise. Sherlock was snarling now, and his brother had moved from on smirking to outright sneering. The two of them were trading barbs so rapidly she could barely follow, let alone interject.

She could hardly believe the words that were coming out of Sherlock's mouth. She could hardly believe the way he was leaning over the table like an animal ready to pounce.

She could hardly believe two men their age still referred to their mother as 'Mummy.'

She wanted to shout at them, say something pithy and cutting and walk away with her head held high like a character in a film. That would show them both.

"Enough." She rose.

Sherlock turned on her. "Sit," he commanded.

"I -"

Sherlock reached out and pressed on her shoulder with surprising force, dropping her back into the chair. "I. Said. Sit."

Mycroft wiped the corners of his mouth, not really trying to camouflage an 'I told you so' twitch of the lips. Sherlock glared at her as if he could nail her to her seat by sheer force of will.

Molly rose again. "No." She dug through her purse and tossed two pound coins down beside Sherlock's flexed fingers. "That's for my tea."

It took every drop of self-possession she could marshal to keep from running through the door.

"Look what you've done!" she heard Sherlock spit out as the door closed behind her.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

She managed to get all the way to the corner before her phone started vibrating in her pocket. She didn't need to look to know it was a text from Sherlock. Molly kept walking.

She didn't get too much further before she recognized the gait behind her. He didn't say anything to identify himself, just kept pace with her, practically breathing down her neck. The bastard.

"Molly," he finally said, as she turned the corner. "Molly, wait."

She surprised herself. "Fuck off," she said in a voice so bitter and venomous, she almost didn't recognize it as her own.

"What did he tell you?" Sherlock demanded. "Why do you believe him? You don't even know him. You know me!"

That did it. She turned so quickly that Sherlock actually ran into her. "I know you? I KNOW you, do I? What do I know about you, exactly?"

"What did he tell you?"

"That you're a drug addict? That you have a long history of arrests? That you'll shag anything that doesn't get up and run away? That you regularly pay for sex?" she said. "Any of that sound like information I had?"

"Why would you need to know any of that?" he asked, sounding genuinely astonished.

Molly blinked at him. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, of course I am. What business is any of that of yours?"

"Sherlock, I had unprotected sex with you. Repeatedly."

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "I was there, I do recall."

"I asked you about drug use. I asked you about your STI status. I asked you about your general health."

"You did, yes."

Exasperation was about to overwhelm her. "You led me to believe there was nothing for me to be concerned about."

"Oh. Oh! I see," he said. "Oh. Right. Drug use, strictly past-tense. I've been clean five years, I don't even really drink any more, it slows me down.

I've quit smoking, too," he said. "No STIs. Except for a recent bout of pneumonia you know all about, my general health is fine. Why are you upset about this?"

"You might have told me, Sherlock. When I asked a direct question, you might have given me a direct answer."

He frowned. "To what end?"

"What do you mean, to what end?" Molly said, boiling over with frustration. "I was consenting to have unprotected sex with you. I should have been told if there was any risk involved."

"And had there been, I would have told you," he said. "I do know the difference between right and wrong, you know. I don't commit murder. I don't steal. I don't poison cats, and I don't blow up buildings full of people for the hell of it, like, oh, who would fit that description? Did you ask him about his sexual history? His use of drugs? Did you, Molly? And what pretty lies did he tell you?"

Molly was nearly physically thrown back by the malice in his words. "Sherlock -"

"I gave you no false information," he said. "I did not lie to you. I did nothing that would put you or your potential child in danger."

"And the psychiatric diagnoses?"

"Ah. That. Another reason to love my dear brother." Sherlock actually seemed to deflate, which was unnerving. "Fine. Seven different opinions from seven

different doctors over the course of approximately three and a half years. The gist of all of them being that Sherlock is not quite right, which will not be news to you. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Mycroft said autism spectrum disorder."

"So did six of those seven doctors."

She nodded. "And the seventh?"

"Settled on high-functioning sociopath, which I prefer."

"You prefer to be considered a sociopath? Why?"

Sherlock leaned in very close. "Because no one holds fundraisers for sociopaths, Molly. There are no fun-runs or telethons. There are no special sociopath schools."

"But -"

"If I were simply autistic, my life's work would be reduced in the minds of most to a parlor trick, a freak ability, rather than an innovative problem-solving methodology. Which, I might add, it is," he said. There it was, his pride, shining through.

"And what's the truth?" she asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Something is - not right - with me. I am not quite like other people. I can, as they say, 'fake it,' when necessary, but it often takes a great deal of effort and concentration. And often, if I am very busy on another problem, or distracted, I forget."

"Oh," she said. "I see."

"Don't," he snapped.

She hadn't done anything. "Don't what?"

"Don't pity me. I don't need your pity. I don't want your pity."

"That may be," she replied, still feeling stung by his earlier behaviour, "but you don't get to tell me what to feel, Sherlock. That's a decision I get to make."

"Oh. Of course. Yes." He nodded once. "My work," he said. "It's valid. My methods are valid."

His statements sounded more like questions, but there was no question in Molly's mind. "You get results," she said.

"I do," he said. "And I am nearly always right."

She nodded. "But - "

"Oh, spare me the platitudes. Yes, yes, we're all individuals, special shiny snowflakes, et cetera, et cetera. I've heard it all. Humans are primarily water and a bit of protein; most people are as individual as tins of soup."

Molly frowned. "How did you know I was -" she started.

"That was not good, wasn't it? What I just said?"

"No, it wasn't. Boring, normal people, the ones who aren't you, do not like being told they don't matter."

"Don't be obtuse," he said. "People matter. I know that. I know it intellectually, and I know it personally. There are people who, as individuals, are very important to me. But I can't fit each and every person in the whole world into my head all at once. There isn't room. And frankly, there are some I just wouldn't want in there, taking up space, in any case. I'm not - not -" Sherlock gave up, obviously frustrated.

Molly didn't know what to say. Not a rare condition for her, but this time she was at such a loss she felt in danger of bursting into tears. More than danger, she was crying. Dammit! Why did she have to cry at a time like this, when she would have traded anything for just one moment of real eloquence?

Sherlock produced one of his ever-present handkerchiefs and handed it to her. "You're going to take his advice and terminate, then?" he asked, coldly.

"What? No." She wiped her eyes and wondered how he'd drawn that conclusion. "Of course not. I never even considered that."

"Really?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

"Yes, really," she answered. "This is my baby, the baby I wanted. Your brother can go - go start a war, or whatever it is you said he does for fun."

"He enjoys border skirmishes and currency crises, too," Sherlock supplied helpfully.

"I'm sure he does," she replied, dabbing at her nose. Some other time, she was going to have to ask what Mycroft actually did for a living.

"Molly," he said, looking past her to something far in the distance. "I am aware that there is some speculation that autism is heritable. But the data are very far from conclusive, and I haven't been impressed with some of the methodologies employed. The risk is almost negligible, in any case, and I didn't think it needed mentioning. I see now I may have been mistaken about that."

So the truth was out; if anyone knew which doctors had been right, Sherlock would.

Autism.

The thinnest slice of autism, but still. It explained so much about Sherlock. And it didn't really explain anything.

"Millions of things can be transmitted genetically," she said. She offered to return his handkerchief, but he waved it away. "There's colour-blindness and weak arches in my family. This is just another."

"So you wouldn't mind if your child were to be like me." His intonation was completely flat, but it somehow still felt like a question.

"It's not a question of minding, Sherlock. Whoever he or she is, however they turn out, I'll love this child," she said. "That's all there is to it."

"Fair enough." Sherlock nodded once. "Right. Good. Well, I'm starving. Rowing with my brother always does that to me." He raised his arm to flag down a cab. "Do you like dim sum?"


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock didn't know what was going to happen next with Molly. He'd had two busy weeks since Mycroft's attempt to interfere in his life yet again, filled with one really interesting case, one boring one that paid very well (which was still a dull notion, but was now also a consideration), and two full, mind-numbing days of sitting about at court, waiting to give testimony. Now, he sat in his flat, waiting for either a case beyond the run-of-the-mill bore-you-out-of-your-skull variety, or a change in the Molly situation. Either would suffice.

She wasn't angry, but neither was she entirely pleased with him. He'd been into the mortuary to see her twice, and both times she'd been friendly, but not overly warm. He had determined shortly after the Mycroft incident that he had to convince her that, while there was something not quite right about him, there wasn't anything particularly wrong, either. To that end, he'd set his phone to remind him to send her a fascinating fact via text at a different time every second day. She had responded to these in ways that seemed appropriate ("that's interesting" or "why did anyone fund this research?" or, in one memorable case, "that's really disgusting, Sherlock. I want to put my brain in the autoclave"). But she answered. That was good.

That last thing he expected that Saturday afternoon in July was to see Molly marching up his street with that determined little walk of hers.

"Come up," he called out the window, and tossed her the key.

As soon as she stood before him, she inhaled in that way that indicated she was marshalling her forces for - something. Was this it? Was this the day she told him to piss off? How was he going to overcome that? He could convince her to continue on; it was simply a matter of finding the right -

Instead, she opened her ridiculously oversized handbag and took out a package, obviously a book, wrapped in brown paper.

"Before you say it, yes, I know you're not my boyfriend," she said. "This is for you."

"Oh. Why?" he asked.

"I saw it in a shop and I thought you'd like it. You don't already own it, do you?" She looked slightly worried. "Anyway, I bought it for you."

He opened it. Oh, that was interesting. The text was Dutch, published by some firm he'd never heard of, which was rare in itself. It was mostly photographs: skulls juxtaposed with the faces of their previous owners, both in life and shortly after death. What a brilliant idea.

"Fascinating," he said. How had he never seen, never even heard of this book? "There is always something lacking in the artist's reconstructions."

Molly nodded. "Always, yes, it's always a bit off."

"That was very kind of you, Molly," he flipped through the first few pages rapidly, entranced. "Thank you."

She peered at him. "Are you trying really hard right now?" she asked.

He gave her a confused frown. "What do you mean?"

"You're being polite. You're saying thank you. You said it takes effort."

"I said it 'often' takes effort," he corrected her.

"And now?"

"And now, you've given me a fascinating book, and it's not my birthday or Christmas. It's not taking any effort at all." And truly, it wasn't.

"I don't even know when your birthday is," she said. "So, you like it?"

"It's the sixth of January, and, yes, I like it very much."

Mrs. Hudson gave him biscuits and fudge at Christmas, sometimes a scarf or gloves. John and he exchanged gifts, each priding themselves on finding the strangest thing possible. Mummy, of course. Mycroft and his brood, but that was out of obligation and he usually let Mummy pick the actual items while he signed the cards. Lestrade gave him cases, but he supposed that wasn't the same thing, at least to Lestrade's way of thinking.

But it was July. Not present weather at all.

"Again, thank you," he said, feeling slightly worried that he was missing something, but he distracted himself by turning another page.

Molly leaned close and pointed to one of the photos. "See this one? Notice how deep the cleft in the chin is?"

"I wouldn't have presumed that from the skull at all," he said, moving over so that she could sit beside him on the sofa. "The reconstruction probably would have emphasized it, too, and yet it would have had little bearing on the shape of the face."

"Now I'll hold your place, and turn to page 74. See the similarities in the faces?"

"But the skulls are quite dissimilar," he said, pondering the points of divergence.

"See why I wanted to show it to you?" she said.

"Yes, thank you," he said, more earnestly this time.

Molly put one arm round his neck and kissed him soundly on the cheek.

"You're welcome," she said.

"Does this mean you've finished being angry with me?" he asked.

"I wasn't angry," she said. "A bit worried. And a bit flummoxed. Your brother is a bit terrifying."

"My brother is an idiot."

"At any rate," she said, "I'm over it."

He didn't believe her, but he wasn't sure if he ought to say so. He was torn between being very comfortable and very uncomfortable. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. It was better when things were one way or another, 'right' or 'wrong,' 'good' or 'bad,' 'up' or down, 'yes' or 'no'. 'Maybe' was horrible.

"Good."

She wrapped her other arm round his shoulder and squeezed him.

Ah. She came here on her own initiative. She'd brought him a gift. She was being very tactile. She was flushed and her pupils were slightly dilated.

Now he understood. Sex. She wanted sex. This was his opportunity, then, to make her like him the way she used to. He could do that.

"Do you remember," he began, his voice hushed, "a few weeks ago, when I was ill?"

"Of course," she said, her brow furrowed.

He gently, gently, cupped the back of her head in his hands. She was already quite close, so it required little effort to turn her face to his, press his mouth to hers, suck her lower lip between his teeth. Her body pressed to his was an understandable equation.

He broke the kiss, leaving her breathing hard. "Care to watch some euphemistic telly?" he asked the side of her neck.

She was panting when she answered him. "Not, um, not if, if it's going to be the way it was before."

"What do you mean?" he asked, straightening. What had he done wrong? He flicked his eyes over her. No, she was definitely in a state of sexual arousal. That much was unmistakable.

"It starts out well, Sherlock, very well," she said. "Then you sort of - turn off. One minute you can't get enough, the next minute you can't get away fast enough. It's - not good," she said, looking a bit apologetic, and a bit dazed.

"Ah." He replied. "That." He hadn't been aware he'd done that, honestly. He supposed there had been a few panicked moments, moments where he had disengaged from the intensity of the situation, rather than be overwhelmed by it. That was how he coped, always had. So that had bothered her? Of course it bothered her. Stupid, stupid.

She swallowed thickly. "Yes. That. If it's um, part of your, um -"

"It's not," he hurried to assure her. "And I can do better."

"It isn't?" she looked skeptical. "You're sure?"

Sherlock frowned. Of course it was. How much more self-evident could it be? "Does it matter," he asked carefully, "so long as the behaviour stops?"

"Can you do that?" she wondered. "I don't want to ask you to do anything you're not comfortable with."

That - that was insulting. His first urge was to snap at her, tell her how stupid she was, and order her to leave, but he held his tongue. He found being treated as though he were handicapped extremely offensive. In his experience, he could learn to do anything, provided he had sufficient incentive and practice and an understanding of what was required. Anyone with half a brain could, and he had a great deal more than that with which to work.

Molly's pulse rate was still quite rapid, as was his. She would be easily provoked in this state. But an argument would serve no purpose. He was trying to convince her to like him again, convince her he didn't deserve to be cut out of her life. Perhaps it was not the ideal moment to say exactly what was on his mind.

"'Course I can," he replied, nuzzling the corner of her jaw. "Watch me."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly would swear until she was blue in the face this was not what she had intended when she went into that book shop. She'd been in search of baby books, and perhaps one or two on autism spectrum disorders. But the photos of skulls had jumped out at her and practically screamed Sherlock's name. He'd been randomly texting her weird facts for the past three weeks - no editorializing, just the facts themselves - and it had occurred to her at some point that he was trying to make contact without being pushy, trying to let her know he was still around, without intruding. It was very unlike his normal, brash behaviour.

He was trying, and trying hard, to do what he thought was normal. Yes, his idea of normal involved sending her texts about the putrefaction rates of bodies submerged in oils of various viscosity, but still, he was trying.

The book was gorgeous, and ridiculously expensive, but she'd been squirreling money away for ages, and she'd thought, "Why shouldn't I? Why can't I give him something simply because I know he'd like it? We are, if nothing else, friends."

Although, as soon as she stepped out of the shop with her bag of books on her arm, she'd begun second-guessing herself, and it took all her courage to go to his flat and give it to him.

Half an hour later, Molly looked down at him. His black hair was damp with sweat. The blush was spreading across his chest. She knew that now, and it stunned her to recognize her own familiarity with him, naked and aroused. He was so fair, his chest and throat and cheeks flushed red during sex. It was heart-stopping, the way the color spread across his beautiful body, insanely sexy.

Of course, she was finding everything insanely sexy at present. She'd thought the second trimester stories were myths, or excuses, or rationalizations. Turns out she'd been wrong about that.

He was smiling up at her, breathing heavily, his hands doing obscenely wonderful things to her breasts. "Good?"

"Very," she groaned.

She could still hardly believe it. She was going to have a baby. And she was - something - with Sherlock. Involved? Yes, involved was a good word; it could mean all sorts of things. Good and bad.

He wasn't exactly as she imagined, but what ever was? Still, she couldn't shake the feeling she was both ridiculously lucky and headed for some disastrous fall.

"What're you thinking?" he asked.

She couldn't answer honestly, so she lied. "Nothing."

Sherlock pulled her face to his and kissed her hard, harder, hardest, so hard she had to pull away to catch her breath. Then, in one swift move, he rolled her onto her back and loomed over her.

"I asked you what you were thinking, Mary Magdalen. Don't lie," he said punctuating the statement with a grind of his hips. "When you ask a direct question, you expect a direct answer, as you've told me on more than one occasion. Well, so do I. Kindly pay me the same courtesy. And why are you grinning?"

Molly adjusted her features so they reflected his. "'Kindly pay me the same courtesy'," she imitated. "Who says that during sex?"

"Apparently, I do." He ground his hips into her again and she gasped. "Out with it."

Molly closed her eyes to answer him. "I'm just - I feel lucky to be here. With you." Her voice was trembling. She hated the sound of it in her ears. "That's all."

He stopped moving. "Really." It wasn't a question.

"Yes." She cupped his face in her hands. "Really."

"Thank you," he whispered. He turned his head, kissed her hands, her palms. He pressed his lips to her wrists, the inside of her elbow, kisses running all the way up her arm to her shoulder, her neck. "Thank you," he whispered in her ear.

Less than a moment later he stopped moving, biting hard into his lower lip. But it was no use; he ejaculated, his fingers digging into her shoulder. She could tell it had taken him by surprise.

He collapsed, half on top of her. "In future," he said, "it would be wise to save your kind words for post-coital conversation."

Molly shook her head. What? He'd come because she said something nice? And it wasn't even all that nice, really. It made her want to kiss him, or pet him, or - something. She settled for running a finger down the length of his nose. "You're a strange man, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes shot wide. "This cannot possibly be new information, Molly Hooper."

"No, it's not," she answered.

Sherlock got back on task, started kissing his way down her torso. "You're gaining weight," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"Eight pounds," he told the skin around her navel.

"Six pounds," she said, swatting his shoulder. "And it's not only all right, it's actually encouraged under the circumstances. Don't be nasty."

"Not being nasty," Sherlock said, concentrating most of his attention on nipping at the thin skin over her left hip. "Simply making an observation." He lifted his head. "Hello, have we met? My name is Sherlock Holmes and I observe." But his tone was playful. He returned to his assault.

"Um, Sherlock- ?"

"Hmm?" He buzzed against the her pubic bone, sending a jolt through her.

"What - um, oh - um, what are you doing?" she asked as he slid down her body and kissed her thigh.

"Really, Molly? My intentions are not obvious?"

"Well, yes they are, but - um - "

"You didn't finish," he said simply.

"I'm also, um," she said, squirming a bit when his nose nudged against - oh God - something, "full of, um-"

"Ejaculate? Yes, I know. It's mine. I put it there," he said before burying his face between her legs.

She reached down and ran her fingers through his hair. 'A very strange man,' she thought, before all the thinking ran out.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Two weeks later, he watched Molly, who was wrapped in his green dressing gown, making tea and toast in his kitchen. He'd asked her around the night before to sew up a gash in his calf that wouldn't stop bleeding but which he didn't have the patience to take to A&E, and she ended up staying. It was not as unsettling as he would have predicted.

"You're out of sugar," she said, hiking up the ridiculously long hem of the robe and attempting to fasten it in place with the belt. The gown was slick silk and the slight bulge of her belly made it impossible to secure.

The tea would be inferior to John's, but he hadn't had to ask her to make it.

"I can borrow some from Mrs. Hudson," he said. He pulled out his phone and started texting.

"Who?"

"My landlady," he said. "She lives downstairs in 221A. I've just sent her a text."

Molly leaned back against the worktop, waiting for the kettle to boil. "Couldn't you just go downstairs and knock?"

"I could do," he said, "but she's in New Zealand at present and probably wouldn't hear me."

Molly frowned. "You're not going to break in?"

Sherlock stood, fastened the belt of his own dressing gown, which was all he wore. "Of course not."

"You're lying," she said.

"You're right," he answered and headed for the stairs.

There was something, he was discovering, painfully tolerable about Molly Hooper. He found, actually, that Molly didn't disrupt his plans at all. She wasn't clingy or demanding. Save for one surprise visit that had ended, he felt, well for all parties concerned, she never came to his flat uninvited, but would open her door to him at any hour of the day or night. Even though she was avoiding caffeine, she made him coffee when he asked for it. And now that they were regularly intimate, her face lit up the minute he walked into the mortuary. If anything, the smile she turned on him was brighter than it had ever been.

He noted again that it was pathetically easy to get into Mrs. Hudson's flat. Something needing doing there. The house itself was under twenty-four hour surveillance thanks to his brother's unending need to annoy him, and there were insanely sophisticated alarms on all external windows and doors, also his brother's doing. And yet Mrs. Hudson's door would barely present a challenge to determined two year old. He knew a slightly shady locksmith who owed him an enormous favour. In exchange for sugar, Mrs. Hudson was going to get a strong, new lock and a security door. One couldn't be too careful - sugar thieves turned up where one least expected them.

The question on his mind now was how to make certain Molly Hooper kept smiling at him. Making other people happy was not one of his strong suits, and if he didn't know how he managed in the first place, how on Earth was he supposed to keep it up?

Sexual satisfaction was clearly an important component. In the course of his cases, sex was one of the prime motivators where abandonment, betrayal, and deceit were concerned. The other factor was inevitably money.

The semen currently making its way down his shower drain was evidence that he was doing his best to keep Molly satisfied sexually. He could consider that issue covered. Finance, however, was another matter.

He'd always managed to get by, but his research indicated that he didn't have enough to provide for mother and child properly without embarrassing himself. There was his trust fund, but ever since his drug days, Mycroft had seen to it he could only access the monthly interest.

Normally, he took cases more on the basis of their potential interest than the payout, but needs must. Whatever was necessary.

Mrs. Hudson was, thankfully, a creature of habit, and he found the sugar exactly where it had been the last time he'd borrowed it. And the three times before that. Sadly, there were no more biscuits to be found. He must have borrowed the last of them.

He pulled Mrs. Hudson's door closed after him. Perhaps an alarm system, too?

"Thank you," Molly said when he laid his slightly ill-gotten gains before her. "She won't mind?"

"She adores me," he answered honestly. "And I did ask."

"She must have got your message," she said. "You're phone's been trying to vibrate itself off the table. Toast?"

"Please."

There was a text from Mycroft, which was immediately deleted, unopened; one from a woman in Norwich who wondered if her husband was cheating on her (probably), the final draft of something from his lawyer which was no doubt painfully tedious and which would have to be opened on the computer, four emails from jhwatsonabroad, which were relegated to the recycling bin, and hello, what's this? An email from Dr. Hawass, with a number of attachments. Curiosity piqued, he booted up his computer and waited for his email to load.

"Butter? Jam? Biological waste?" Molly asked him, her head in the fridge.

"Hmm?"

"Your toast?"

He looked up. "What?"

"What do you want on your toast?"

"Yes," he said, then returned to his screen. "Oh, wonderful!" he breathed.

Molly set a plate of toast with butter and jam at his elbow. "What is?"

"What is what?" Why was she nattering at him?

Molly frowned. "Case, is it?"

"Yes." he said.

"Big one?"

"Somewhat, yes." He read through the information. Missing antiquities. No leads to date. Substantial reward.

He checked the time, then the airline schedule. If he got packed and dressed in under an hour, he could be in Cairo tonight.

"Molly," he said, calculating flight times and connections, "leave."

Molly stopped mid-sip. "Excuse me?"

There was something in her tone. He looked up.

Not happy. Why? All he'd said was -

Oh.

"I have a case that requires my complete attention. I'll arrange for a cab to take you home. Thank you for the toast and the tea."

"And the sex?" she said.

"Yes, of course, that too." He waved dismissively.

"Say please," she demanded.

"What? I'll do no such - oh, you're teasing me."

"Yes, I'm teasing you." By this time, Molly had risen. She ruffled his hair. "Eat your toast," she said. She sounded very much like John sometimes.

Sherlock did so. It was a small price to pay.

Ten minutes later, he was in his room, piling hot weather gear into his travel bag. He heard the front door close and a taxi pull away. He wondered, vaguely, who had gone out. But it didn't matter.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was starting to wonder if something was wrong. She hadn't seen Sherlock since she left his flat Sunday morning. He had been so caught up in whatever he was doing on his computer at the time that she didn't bother to say goodbye. There wasn't much point when he was like that. She understood that now.

But he hadn't even been to Barts this week. He hadn't been by her flat with some minor injury she had to see to right this second. He hadn't emailed or texted anything ridiculous.

It might just be the case. Or something may have changed between them without her knowing. Or he might be dead in a ditch, covered in maggots. She hoped not, but she never knew with him.

During Friday lunch, she decided to send him a text. It took her twenty minutes to decide what to say. It was even true:

DR AHMED IS THREATENING TO HAVE THE TECHS BIN YOUR CULTURES.

17 THRU 21 ARE DEAD. SHOULD I BOTHER TO DEFEND THE REST?

-MOLLY

He answered immediately.

YES, PLEASE. BUSY BEING SHOT AT PRESENTLY.

WILL EMAIL LATER.

-SH

Molly did her best to convince herself he was being metaphorical, then she saved Sherlock's cultures from Dr. Ahmed's tidying.

Late that night, her computer broke into song, letting her know she had mail.

Sherlock had written:

M-,

THE CASE IS PROGRESSING MUCH MORE SLOWLY THAN I HAD ANTICIPATED. I SHOULD BE BACK IN LONDON SOME TIME NEXT MONTH.

-SH

Ah. So it was that case. No ditches or maggots as of yet, apparently, which was, in her opinion, good. She wondered where he was. Would it be wrong to ask?

She sent him a reply. It took her an hour to word it just right:

DEAR SHERLOCK,

GLAD YOU DIDN'T GET SHOT.

-MOLLY

P.S. WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?

Again his answer was almost instantaneous:

M-,

AT THE MOMENT? THE KHAN EL-KHALILI. GOOGLE IT.

-SH

Molly did. The Cairo Market. Egypt. She could picture it perfectly, or imagined she could. She sent just one more email.

DEAR SHERLOCK:

SPF 40. AND A HAT.

-MOLLY

Sherlock had nothing to say to that.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock had planned to sleep all the way back to London, but, despite his exhaustion, it hadn't worked out that way. He'd slept deeply from Cairo to Berlin, but, from Berlin to Heathrow, he'd been on the edge of his seat

He choked down the pretzels, since he hadn't taken in anything other than coffee in nearly a week. They were overly-salty and overly-processed and reminded him how much he would have rather had Molly's fish and chips. Years of practice could turn the most mundane skill into a sublime art; Molly's frying was clear evidence of this.

He wanted to return to the comfort and familiarity of Baker Street, get something to eat, and sleep for two days. He wanted to hand Molly the cheque in his wallet, and watch her eyes go round as saucers as she counted the zeroes. And then he'd shag her into the mattress, because she liked that and it made her like him. It would be a satisfying conclusion to a case full of frustrating obstructions.

He hadn't given Molly a second thought while the case was on, but now that it was over, he was having difficulty thinking of anything else. Strange, that.

He ripped open another bag of pretzels and up-ended them into his mouth all at once.

It occurred to him over the Channel that, were he to send her a text now,

there could be fish and chips and clean sheets waiting when he opened the door to his flat. Especially if said text was worded just so.

It was a brilliant idea. His knees bounced. He could barely keep in his seat for willing the plane to reach London that much faster.

Finally, the plane landed, but, as was so often the case, they had to wait. And then wait longer. The passenger beside him - chemical engineer, originally from Blackpool but living in Milton Keynes, married, with two children and a setter with a skin condition, dull - pulled out his phone as soon as they were allowed.

"Linda? Yeah, on time, supposedly. Yeah, well enough. All I've had is the bloody peanuts. No, really, Berlin to London and that's all they've got on offer. I was thinking Chinese tonight. Curry? Again? We had curry before I left," he said, entirely too loudly. "Yeah, no. sorry. Yeah. Just knackered. Whatever you want, it's fine. Yeah, love you too."

Linda's husband turned his phone off and stared at it. "Bloody curry it is."

An uncomfortable, almost claustrophobic sensation settled over Sherlock, making his stomach vault and his skin feel too tight, as if it had shrunk in the rain. He almost expected the legendary face mask to drop from the bulkhead, since all the oxygen that had been on the plane was now gone.

There was no way in hell he was calling Molly. He wasn't going home, either. He wasn't having chips or a fry-up or any of her deliciously horrid food, for that matter.

He was going straight from Heathrow to the club. And without the benefit of a shower or rest, he was going to beat another man with his fists until the desire to inhale the scent of Molly Hooper's skin passed.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock normally would have predicted the blow that connected so perfectly with his left eye. He usually sussed out the opposition within the first few minutes, anticipated their every move. That was one of the benefits of his club, the variety; fighters on their way both up and down in the rankings. One never knew what was coming. It kept the wits sharp.

Even as his head snapped backwards from the force of the blow, he assured himself he was learning, cutting away the dead wood from his thought processes. He wasn't simply taking a beating. Why would he do that?

It was the first bout he'd lost in years.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was coming out of the Tube near her flat, shopping bags cutting into her palms, when she saw him, leaning against a wall and - what else? - texting. As always, the sight of him sent a current straight through her. She lost her grip on her bags. And there he was, catching them and her without much discernible effort.

"I solved the Cairo case," he said by way of greeting, but looking away. Eye contact didn't always come naturally to him, she had noticed. And that was, according to some of the reading she'd done, to be expected.

"Oh. Good. Went well, then?"

"Well enough, yes," he replied, and gestured for her to continue walking.

"Um, did you have fun?" she asked. That was a good question, wasn't it? It was challenging, at any rate, Sherlock appeared to be pondering it pretty deeply.

"Fun? It was stimulating," he said finally, "but hardly groundbreaking."

"Well, that's something." Oh God, more witty conversation from Molly Hooper, she thought. Why did his mere presence turn her into such an idiot? For four weeks straight she had been fine. Bored? Yes. Lonely? Perhaps a little. But self-sufficient and competent, for all that. She supposed it stood to reason that the moment she saw him, she would do something to embarrass herself; that's how her life worked, after all.

When they reached the front door to her block of flats, she caught sight of his reflection in the plate glass, noticed some bruising around his eye. The one, she now realized, he'd kept turned away from her. She turned to him and looked closely. "What happened here? That looks fresh."

"Punched," he said, maneuvering to hold the door for her and the shopping, both, "at two thirty two p.m. today. Roughly. So fresh, yes."

"You've iced it?" She stepped wrong and nearly tripped. He caught her by the sleeve and kept her from collapsing in an ungainly heap. "Today? I thought the case was over."

Sherlock nodded. "Not case related. New chap at my club, from Barbados. Powerful right hook. I did not see 'that' coming." Which, for some reason, made him grin.

Molly's first job was to turn on the three fans she had situated at key points around the flat. It was a warmer than average summer, and humid, and she consequently felt as if she were in a sauna most of the time. She looked at him harder, and in an instant, she recognized the pattern of the injury. "So, you were boxing? You box?"

He gave her the briefest nod and the slightest smile in reply. If she'd blinked, she would have missed it.

"You boxed this afternoon?" she said. He had been back in London less than six hours and this was what he got up to? The image it conjured in her mind was, she had to admit, horribly attractive. "Why?"

"Why shouldn't I?" he asked and set - well, really, dumped - her carrier bags on the kitchen worktop.

"No reason, I guess. Sit." She began unpacking her shopping. Sherlock, rather than sitting, stood leaning heavily on the back of a kitchen chair, watching her every move. "Have you eaten? Are you hungry? I'm starving." She had two settings, now - ravenous or nauseated.

"No."

"Oh." Molly wasn't sure which of her questions he was answering, but it didn't really matter. She placed the boxes of nasty brown whole grain pasta in her cupboard and began unpacking the fruits and veg. "My father was a boxer. But you know that."

He didn't answer.

"How'd you get involved in it?" she said. "It doesn't seem very -" she stopped herself.

"Very?"

She winced. "Posh."

"No, I don't suppose it does," he replied. "At school. Athletics. We were required to do three sports. I chose boxing, fencing, and swimming."

"Oh. Why those?"

"Not really team sports, are they?" he said. His lips twitched. "Apparently, I do not play well with others."

She decided that was best not commented upon. "I like boxing, obviously, although it's not something we're supposed to admit to anymore, is it? Not politically correct at all." She looked him up and down quickly. "What are you, Light-Heavy? Cruiser?

"Heavy," he replied. Then, "Just."

"Oh." That didn't sound right to Molly. But then, 'Sherlock' and 'boxing' didn't sound right to Molly. He was quite muscular, true, had quick reflexes, and was both fast and light on his feet. Not a powerhouse, perhaps, but finesse and grace - those he had, and he could easily out-think any opponent. And the man hadn't built that lovely body by texting, after all.

Without looking at him she said, "I'd like to come watch a match, sometime."

Molly felt herself blush. Nothing to be done about that. "Seriously, Sherlock, sit," she said, changing the topic before she could say anything else stupid. "I'm making tea. Want some?"

She heard the scrape of the chair legs on the tile. "Not if it's that horrid decaffeinated swill."

She put the kettle on. It was both weird and oddly normal. He sat at the table, his fingers steepled, watching her put away her shopping. It made her nervous that it felt like it could so easily become routine. The kettle whistled. She gave him tea in her best mug, with two sugars, the way he liked.

"Thank you," he said, unfailingly polite, but grimaced slightly after his first taste. "Oh God, this is much worse than the decaf."

She took a drink from her own mug and considered. It wasn't as expensive as what he kept in his flat, but it was perfectly serviceable as far as she was concerned. And better than the awful decaf she was drinking. "I promise you it's not," she said with a wry grin.

"Oh, I've something for you." He broke into a smile, reached into his shirt pocket, then handed her a slip of paper.

No, not a slip of paper. It was a cheque. A rather substantial cheque. She had to count the zeros twice. "What's this?"

"Finder's fee and recovery fee, plus substantial bonus," he preened. "It was a matter of stolen antiquities, valuable ones, obviously, which I recovered, intact. There will also be one from another insurer in a few weeks, too, but not as large."

She looked at it again. One- two- three- four- "Sherlock, I got less than this from the sale of my dad's shop."

He looked worried. "And?"

"This is a lot of money."

He shrugged. "Yes."

She handed it back.

"No no," he said. "Keep it. It's for you."

She couldn't have heard that right. "Sorry?"

Sherlock frowned. "You don't like it? Or, no, it's not that you don't -" His eyes narrowed. "No, you don't want it. Why don't you want it? Oh, you think your bank won't cash it? It will; it's a draft."

She placed the cheque on the table, then carefully stood, needing, suddenly, to be on her feet and moving. A quarter of a million pounds? He just walked in here and handed her a cheque for a quarter of a million pounds, just like that. She found herself pacing in the tiny amount of space her flat and growing belly allowed her.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Apart from everything?"

Sherlock was on his feet, now, too. He squinted at her, his mouth open, looking perplexed. It was a rare expression on his face, and would have been funny, if she hadn't wanted to cry.

"I don't understand why you're upset," he said slowly. "Is it not enough? I can get more."

Molly looked up at him, willing her voice not to quaver. "What am I supposed to do with this?" she asked. "This is - this is a lot of money."

"So you've said." Sherlock frowned. "Nappies? Baby food? Whatever a child needs. I've no idea, but I hear children are horribly expensive."

"A quarter of a million pounds worth of nappies?" she asked, boggling a bit.

Sherlock hesitated. "No?"

"Is this - are you giving me this money to get rid of me?"

Sherlock looked as befuddled as she felt. "Hardly," he said, shaking his head. "I am giving you money with which to purchase items you require. That's how money works," he finished, with a sarcastic edge.

"So, this is just, um -?" She searched for a word.

"Maintenance," he supplied.

"Maintenance? I could buy a flat with this," she said.

"Not in London, and not a very nice one," he replied. "And on that topic," he said, inhaling, "I've a suggestion. Hear me out. There's a very suitable, newly-renovated flat not far from my own. Two bedrooms, two baths, access to and use of the garden."

He looked slightly nervous, in his darting-eyes-pursed-lip-Sherlock sort of way, as though this might have been as important to him as delivering the cheque.

"Where?"

Sherlock still looked vaguely worried. "It's the basement flat; 221C."

"Oh. Very near, then," she said. Well, that was a shocker. He wasn't asking her to move in with him, thank God, but that was never on the table. He was, however, asking her to consider moving, essentially, next door, to stay close. Very close.

She wasn't sure what to make of that. In some ways, it seemed like a horrible idea. In others -

Well, it was such a nice area. The Tube stop was very handy. There were shops close, and Regent's Park was a short walk. If the flat was half as nice as Sherlock's, it would be ideal.

"Can I afford it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Would I have suggested it if you couldn't?"

This had to be difficult for him. "I could take a look," she said. "I've an exam in the morning and a busy afternoon. I could come after work." She rose up on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"What was that for?" he asked, suddenly very stiff.

"Because you gave me £250,000. Because you found me a nice flat in a lovely neighbourhood, dodgy upstairs neighbour notwithstanding. And because you like it when I do that." She gave him another quick peck.

"If it pleases you to believe that, fine," he said, trying to sound haughty but only sounding ridiculous.

"You like it," she told him again. And she planted a kiss on the side of his neck. "You know what I'd really like?" she whispered into his ear.

"What?"

"A cuddle," she said, because she would. Nothing seemed so appealing at the moment as wrapping her arms round Sherlock and having him hold her. It wasn't something he'd done more than a handful of times, and she always had to ask. But she had missed him, and worried a bit, and she was glad he was back in London in one slightly bruised piece.

Sherlock squinted at her. "Be serious."

"I am. I know it's a bit pervy but, indulge me, hm?" She gave him as hard a look as she knew how, and he stepped toward her holding up his arms in a gesture of surrender. She pressed her head to his chest. His heart was beating like thunder; his back was as stiff as a board.

Slowly, gently, he came to rest his arms lightly on her shoulders. It took forever for his heart to slow down. It took nearly as long for his body to start to mould itself to hers.

"Isn't this better than being hit in the face repeatedly by someone you don't know?" she asked.

He hummed low in his throat in answer, in non-answer, really, but Molly knew what Molly knew. He'd just spent a month out of the country and his first act upon returning wasn't to go home, wasn't to sleep for three days, wasn't even to come here and pretend not to check up on her. No, it was to find a stranger to pound the snot out of him. She didn't have a degree in psychology, but for this, she didn't need one.

After a few minutes, he said, "There's a bit more of you."

She looked up at him. "What?"

He squeezed her very gently. "More. Of you."

"Oh. Right." She was blushing again. "Well, it has been a month. Up, um, fourteen pounds in total-"

"I think you'll find it's closer to -"

"Fourteen pounds, Sherlock," she insisted, "and leave it at that."

"Fourteen pounds it is, then. May I look?" he asked, his lips closer to her ear than was really necessary. "Or do you require more 'cuddling,' first?"

Molly pulled away, surprised. This was the first real interest he had shown. He'd always acted as if the stork was going to drop her baby off one day in the distant - very distant - future, not as if there was actually a child physically growing inside of her. Of course, at this point, it was kind of hard to miss. "I suppose so. Yes."

"Good. Thank you. Here," he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to the fold-out bed she hadn't folded away that morning.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall open.

"Lie back," he said, "I want to see -"

She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and eased her head back onto her pillow.

Sherlock sat staring at her breasts and belly. It was a look she recognized - pure scientific curiosity.

"Your balance has been affected, I noticed," he said peering at her abdomen intently. "Is that normal?"

"Yes," she replied. "The body is full of hormones designed to loosen the joints to

some degree, so that comes into play. Plus, there's extra weight -"

"Allegedly fourteen pounds worth," he interjected with a quirk of his lips.

She cuffed his ear, gently. "Actually fourteen pounds worth," she said, "but it's not evenly distributed, so it does alter balance, a bit. Center of gravity shifts."

"Your breasts are larger."

"Yes," she said, feeling a bit like one of his fiber samples.

"And this brassier," he said, touching the thick, padded strap, "is an aesthetic nightmare."

"It is," she agreed. It was white cotton, sturdily constructed, and made her feel like an old woman. She hated it with a passion. "But I need the, um, extra support."

"May I?" he said, holding both hands poised just above the mound of her belly.

She nodded and pushed the elastic panel of her trousers down. The change in her body since Sherlock had been in Cairo was massive. 'Self-conscious' didn't begin to cover what she was feeling.

He moved his splayed fingers softly over the taut flesh, gently measuring her new contours with his smooth palms.

"Does it, um, put you off?" she asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not. At. All," he said, making each word a complete sentence.

Molly allowed herself to exhale.

"And this?" He drew his finger from her navel to where her waistband rested above her pubis. It tickled and she flinched slightly. "This is new. What is this?"

"Oh. The linea nigra."

"'Black line'," he translated. "Why? What's it do, what's it for?"

"That's where they install the zip," she answered, mock-serious.

Sherlock quirked one brow. "I think not."

"It's just a dark streak of pigment," she explained. "Hormones. Usually fades after the pregnancy."

"I see." He looked up at her face, then. "And just how far does it extend?"

The purely scientific curiosity was gone, replaced by something more basic, something she always enjoyed seeing in his eyes: want.

Molly stood up, tugged the horrible maternity trousers, with their horrible elastic panel, down, and let them puddle on the floor, then unclasped the hideous bra.

"Let's see, shall we?

"Oh yes," Sherlock agreed. "Let's."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Later, because it was insanely hot in her flat and her life wasn't quite strange enough, they were cuddling. Sort of.

With fingertips only, Sherlock stroked her belly, over and over, as he had been for a quarter of an hour. Then, like a shock, the mound of her belly rippled, and there was a tiny thump outward.

Mouth and eyes wide, Sherlock breathed, "Oh!"

It happened again. "He moved," he whispered, as if afraid of breaking the spell.

"He - or she - does that now," Molly said. "Especially when I'm on my back."

"He," Sherlock said absently, rubbing his fingers over the same spot, no doubt trying to elicit the same response.

"It might be a girl," she said.

"It's not."

He sounded certain. Molly frowned. "I told Mike not to ruin the surprise."

"It wasn't Mike," he said. "Can you make him do that again?"

"No, I can't," she replied. "And rubbing harder won't help, thank you."

Sherlock actually looked chagrinned. "Sorry."

"So why do you think it's a boy?

"I know it's a boy," he answered. His brow furrowed in concentration. He'd gone from rubbing her belly to drawing elaborate swirls with his index finger. "At your last check-up, the heart rate recorded was 126 beats per minute. Male fetuses habitually have slower heart rates than female fetuses, whose hearts are generally in the 160 range. Ergo, boy."

From what little she remembered of her obstetrical training, that sounded right. But -

"You weren't at my last check up."

He'd moved on to new shapes, hieroglyphs, she thought. "What? Oh. Molly, why must I keep asking if we've met?"

"Of course, silly me." The baby chose then to perform a rather impressive dive- roll combination.

"A son," Molly said, as Sherlock pressed his face to her belly and she ran his fingers through his hair.

"A son," he repeated, his eyes sparkling.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Turned out, the flat was gorgeous. It was just the sort of place she could picture herself and her baby living in. Blue where Sherlock's flat was predominantly green, streamlined and sleek where Sherlock's was fussy and Victorian, it was surprisingly light and airy for a basement. There were working fireplaces in the lounge and the master bedroom. The bathrooms were not overly large, but they were well-designed and well-fitted. The larger bedroom easily held a double bed, a table, a bureau and an arm chair, and had built-in cupboards. The smaller bedroom, while mostly unfurnished, was the perfect size for a nursery and later, a child's room. Even with a dining table, the kitchen was roomy, and had been outfitted with sleek worktops and gleaming new appliances.

The best part was that it was fully furnished. Well, almost fully. She'd need some baby furniture, a cot and high chair, a changing table, perhaps a rocking chair. But those were purchases she'd anticipated, so that was all right. And not having to move her nearly worn-out, well, everything, was a big plus, to her way of thinking.

"The garden is out this way." Sherlock led her to a door at the back of the flat. It was tiny, as any garden in this part of London would be, but it, too, had been recently renovated. Sunny and fully enclosed, there was a small patch of lawn, a deck big enough for a small table and a bench, and beautiful flower beds along either wall. Molly could imagine herself sitting here with the baby on a lovely spring day.

As she stood envisioning the future, she caught Sherlock, leaning against the garden wall in a fashion-model slouch, watching her closely. "Do you like it?" he asked.

She supposed she ought to weigh the rent more closely, but she had just come into a quarter of a million pounds, hadn't she? Even after taxes, that would go a long way.

It was almost too good to be true,

"I love it," she said. "It's perfect."

In a split second, Sherlock changed from concerned and brooding to grinning like a mad man. "I'll text Mrs. Hudson," he volunteered, striding across the garden. "She'll be back in three days and thrilled she doesn't have to look for a tenant."

Molly reached out as he came close, putting her arm round him, and kissing his cheek. "Thank you." For once they were on the same page.

"You're welcome," he said, looking oddly mischievous. It was a good look on him.

She never really forgot from moment to moment, but occasionally she was struck by the knowledge, bright and shiny and new, that he was simply gorgeous. He looked very pleased with himself, wearing his cocky little 'I'm the smartest person in the entire universe' grin, and this was one of those moments in which, instead of wanting to slap it off his face, she wanted to lick it off. Suck it off. Gnaw it off.

It was crazy how much she wanted him, sometimes, how visceral the feeling was. He was work, he would always be work, and he was so easily bored that she had no idea how long 'always' might last. Sometimes, he was so damned frustrating and obstinate that she wanted to hit him or scream or do both at once.

And then, other times, none of that seemed to matter. Other times, he did something thoughtful or kind or funny, and she felt like she was on heat.

She looked at him, standing there grinning at her, and suddenly all she could think was, 'this' and 'mine' and 'now.'

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock had expected Molly to like the flat; he had, with the help of an apparently well-regarded designer who owed him a very large favour, done his best to ensured she would. He had expected her to be pleased and even grateful. He had not expected Molly to show her pleasure and/or gratitude by herding him back into the flat, driving him toward the larger bedroom, then wrestling him to the bed. And yet, that's exactly what had happened.

He had never had a woman attempt to take his clothes off before, either, but that happened, too. He didn't offer much resistance, though; what would the point of that have been? Sex made Molly happy and agreeable and he liked her that way.

While always a full participant in sex and not shy about making her likes and dislikes known, this flat-out sexual aggression on Molly's part was new and surprising. And, from a purely objective point of view, interesting. Sherlock was, however, the subject of this particular full-frontal assault, so objectivity didn't really play into it.

These thoughts raced through his head as Molly licked the side of his neck and jostled the ribs he had not told her were a bit bruised. The pain and the pleasure augmented each other somehow, seared him as Molly kissed his mouth, nipped his jaw, licked his throat. It was pleasantly like being mugged.

His jacket and shirt were gone in short order, and he distracted her enough that she didn't bother with his vest. She didn't even fully remove his trousers; she merely pulled them to the middle of his thighs, rucked up her skirt, opened her blouse, and climbed astride him.

"Molly?" he said, not sure what he was asking her.

"Shutupshutupjustshutup" she said, and rocked against him.

He could do that.

He leaned forward to catch her exposed nipple between his teeth; he wanted his penis in her vagina and her breast in his mouth; a closed circuit of pleasure upon pleasure upon pleasure, doubling and redoubling itself, and Molly's reaction told him she thought it was an excellent idea, too. His mouth tugged at her breast the same way the muscles in her vagina tugged at his penis. It had the potential to be overwhelming, but he fought that down, focusing only on the act, on the sheer animal feeling of it, and on the wild look in Molly's eyes.

She slid slick and hot almost completely off of his erection, then came down hard enough to make him gasp. She did it twice more and began orgasming hard, like a whirlpool pulling him under the waves, and Sherlock had to struggle to keep his own climax at bay.

Then she slid off him and swallowed him down to the hilt in one swift, fluid motion, and she looked undeniably mad. He normally didn't watch while he was being fellated; but there she was, her mouth stretched wide and staring straight into his eyes, and unlike all the times before, with all the interchangeable lips and teeth and tongues, the sensations weren't something that just occurred as if by magic. No, Molly was doing this to him, playing his body as if it were an instrument, as if he were her Strad.

Just as he was getting close, she stopped.

And it felt better than any drug.

He pulled her up to kiss her lips. Her mouth tasted of their sex and he wanted to be everywhere inside her, wanted to crawl inside her, to stay inside her, wallow in the scent and taste and touch of her.

She slipped back on top of him, rocking hard again, straining, quickly coming to another orgasm. He had resisted the tide of his body, stood on the precipice so long he felt as though he could resist indefinitely. His brain was pulled so tight he felt he might snap at any moment. There was a hallucinogenic quality to hovering so long on the brink of orgasm.

Not sure what else to do, he kissed her again in the confusion of her orgasm, kissed her and kissed her and, with his hands cupping her face, rolled her onto her back and positioned himself between her legs.

But he didn't penetrate her. Instead, he slipped his first two fingers inside her and stroked her clitoris carefully with his thumb, something he hadn't done with her before but which was generally well-received. He wrapped his left hand round himself and in a few quick strokes, he was ejaculating. On the dome of her belly. Her sex. Her thighs. His hands.

He collapsed beside her, breathing hard. Yes, very pleasantly like being mugged.

He picked up her hand, kissed the back of it. "Does this mean you'll take the flat?"

Molly came as near to laughing as she could when so close to sleep. "We've ruined these sheets," she said. "I guess I'll have to."


	4. Chapter 4

John Watson had rarely felt better in his life. He was tanned and fit from his working honeymoon. He'd done some good, which his soul had sorely needed. He had found a lovely, intelligent, and steady woman willing to be his wife; even more surprising, she could tolerate Sherlock, which was extraordinary. Either she was a complete nutter, or she was incredibly forgiving. Both were excellent qualities in a spouse.

John was happy. He was happy to be alive. Happy to be married. Happy to be back in London. Hoping to hell Sherlock had it in him to be happy for him, too. Six months of unopened, unanswered emails suggested that might not be the case. But, in spite of all life had done to cure him of it, John suffered from chronic, inoperable optimism.

He was surprised to see Sherlock standing on the pavement, carrier bag full of boxes and envelopes in hand.

"I've your post." Sherlock said, smiling. It was the smile that usually meant someone had died in a truly violent and gruesome way. He looked young and unworried and positively delighted.

"What? No 'Hi, John, how was the honeymoon? Glad to have you back'?"

"Hmm. What? Oh, were you away? Sorry, hadn't noticed. Do forgive me. Hello, John, how was the dysentery, sleeping rough, and questionable drinking water? Happy to be away from the wife yet?" Sherlock grinned.

"Git," John said affectionately. That was actually milder than what he'd been expecting. Sherlock was handling being on his own fairly well, then. Or he'd found a new flat mate. Which was fine with John. Really, it was.

Absolutely fine.

"You look well," John said. "I think - is that - are you actually tanned?"

"I am well," Sherlock replied. "And tanned, yes, a bit. For a case. Well, result of a case. I was in Egypt for about a month not long ago."

"Oh. I see. Interesting case?"

"Interesting enough," Sherlock replied. "Lucrative, as it turned out."

"Good, good."

Well, this is awkward, John thought. That was the problem with going away for an extended period - you mentally packed the people you knew in bubble wrap and stored them in some boxroom in your mind, expecting them to be just as you left them when you returned. The world didn't work that way, though; they just went on having lives without you.

"So, you texted," he said. "Finally. Which was a relief, mate, because I'd been worried you'd lost your thumbs in some horrible accident. Is there a case?"

"There were. I solved them all." He handed John the carrier bag. Sherlock was still smiling but not quite the same smile. John knew this smile; it was his 'sod off' smile.

Ah. Oh. "Right then, I'll just pop in and say 'Hi' to Mrs. Hudson and I'll be off," John said.

"She's not in," Sherlock said. He didn't exactly block John's path but he'd positioned himself so that it would be very awkward for John to get around him.

"Oh?" John said.

"Women's Institute or whatever it is she does Tuesday mornings, I should imagine."

"It's Thursday," John said.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked. "Well, not that, then."

John scratched the back of his neck and assessed the situation. They were standing outside Sherlock's flat, but Sherlock hadn't invited him in, and was actively, well, inactively, blocking the door. At the same time, he wasn't dismissing John or trying to make him leave, either. So - what was happening here?

John looked at Sherlock again, carefully looked at him, searching for some clue. Then, what was so odd struck him. Sherlock looked like he had been on holiday. Apart from the tan, which was odd enough, he looked well-rested and happy

and - and -

Fed.

"You've put on weight," John said. "You've been eating!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I do eat, John."

"Sure you do." John couldn't help but smile.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, his face turning dark.

He didn't want him in the flat. Sherlock was looking happy and fit and for some reason, did not want John in the building or the flat. Which meant -

Well, that's where it fell apart for John. It meant something, but he could only guess what, and each guess was stranger, less likely, more ridiculous, than the last.

And maybe it - whatever it was - was just none of John's business. Sherlock was his friend; if he wanted John to know, he'd tell him.

"Nothing," John said. "I just missed you, you great idiot, and I'm happy to see you."

"Ah, well, yes. As I said, I hadn't even -"

"Shut up, Sherlock, or I swear to God, I will come over there and I will hug you."

Sherlock cracked a grin. "You'll do no such thing."

"I might."

"John -"

"Nah, you're right, I won't." John sighed happily. "You got anything on right now?"

"Not immediately, no. Why?"

"I'd kill for a coffee. We could just -" He gestured in the direction of Speedy's.

"Their coffee's vile," Sherlock said. "What about Angelo's? It would do him good to see you. He asks after you all the time."

"Does he?"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said. "He still can't believe you threw me over for

some" - he shuddered theatrically - "woman!"

John chuckled. "Sure, why not?"

They headed off toward Northumberland Street. "So how was Australia, John?"

"You know perfectly well it was Africa," John corrected. "And it was great. Terrific. And how were things around here? What's new?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not much."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Living downstairs from Sherlock was, like most things, not exactly as she had imagined. She knew Sherlock would say that was a failure of imagination on her part, and she'd have had to agree with him.

Mrs. Hudson turned out to be a lovely, jovial, motherly woman, who seemed thrilled to have Molly installed in the basement flat. She assured Molly that any friend of Sherlock's was a friend of hers, and to be sure to ask if she ever needed anything, anything at all. She also deemed it important to tell her Mrs. Turner had married ones, whatever that meant, so she'd fit right in. She half-wondered just what Sherlock had told Mrs. Hudson, but not enough to actually ask. He'd probably lie, anyway.

That first week, she couldn't count the number of texts she got from him. As soon as she came home from work, COME UP appeared on her smartphone screen, and as soon as she did, he actively ignored her, returning immediately to his book, or experiment, or phone. She also discovered he had no boundaries whatsoever; he used her computer, her phone, her books, her bathtub - his was apparently full. Once or twice, he tried to store medical waste thinly disguised as experiments in her fridge. And if she failed to respond to his demands that she appear in order to be ignored, he'd text that he was coming down so he could, in essence, ignore her there.

He never had food in his flat, either, beyond perhaps a tin of beans or a jar of nuts. He never asked her for food, but the minute she turned on the cooker he was there, like she'd rung a bell. Of course he thanked her; his manners were as lovely and uneven as ever.

She also discovered he bit his nails while watching telly, which was strange. He'd have his head in her lap - although how that first transpired, she couldn't say - relaxed and boneless otherwise, and he'd be gnawing away at first one thumbnail, then the other. She was forever gently easing his hands away from his mouth.

If anything, the sex was even better, though she wasn't sure how he managed that. Some mysteries were best left unexplored.

Still, she didn't get the full effect of living so close to Sherlock Holmes until about two weeks in. She was woken by music pouring into her bedroom from the fireplace. It was awful, shrill, modern orchestral music played by a single violin, horrible noise really, like something you would have to listen to in Purgatory while your sins were being burnt away. And it was coming, without a doubt, from Sherlock's flat.

Lovely. She was going to have to complain to Sherlock. She could just imagine how well that was going to go over. Screwing up her courage, she put on her dressing gown and climbed the stairs to his door.

The sneer he gave her dressing gown was like the sneer from which all sneers had been derived.

He had a violin in his hand. Oh God. It wasn't a CD. It was Sherlock. He boxed and played the violin? How did that go together?

"I have to work in the morning," she said.

"I don't," he said.

"It's late."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed," Sherlock ushered her into the room with a bow. It was one of his odd habits, bowing, and it had a way of seeming polite while forcing her to go where he wanted her.

"So you're going to stop until morning?" she asked.

"No, I'm thinking. I play the violin when I'm thinking. It helps order my ideas," he said.

Molly could not imagine that music helping anyone do anything other than perhaps plan, and then commit, an axe murder.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked. Maybe if she talked him through it, he'd stop abusing that instrument.

"A murder," he said with a happy smile.

"Oh," she said. "I'll get back to bed, then. Perhaps I'll invest in ear plugs."

"Good thinking," he said. "Mrs. Hudson does. And John may have left some. He bought them by the ton."

"Really? I wonder why." She turned to go.

"No," he said and poked her in the back with the bow of the violin. "On second thought, stay. I need someone to listen to me when I talk."

Molly turned and glared at the bow. "Don't do that again. Ever."

"What? Oh. No," he said. "Just sit for a moment?"

"I'm sleepy." She tried not to whine.

"Have my tea," he said. "I haven't touched it yet. You can sit in Joh- this chair, or you can lie on the sofa. You don't have to do anything."

This was not the plan at all, she thought as she dropped into the arm chair. The plan was to sleep, at night, before going to work, in the morning, the way people did. Molly suddenly foresaw a life where there wasn't much use making plans. It made her even sleepier.

Sherlock handed her his mug. "Right then," he said.

She placed the tea on the side table and closed her eyes.

"Why do people kill?" Sherlock asked, putting the violin under his chin and making an infernal sort of screech.

She opened one eye. "Because someone plays horrible noises at them at 1 a.m.?"

"A possibility, I suppose," he said, then did it again. "Why else?"

"What happened to the part where I don't have to do anything?"

Sherlock scowled. More violin.

"Fine." Molly rubbed her eyes. "They feel they've more to lose by not killing?"

"Possibly." Sherlock stood before the fireplace. "But people generally kill for revenge, for personal gain, to protect themselves, to protect their families and sexual relationships, money, status, people kill for fun, people kill in fits of anger, though fewer in that last group than you might imagine."

Molly tucked her arm under her head and curled up in the chair, looking at him.

"So what's the story? The case, I mean."

"As per usual 'the story' as you refer to it, varies wildly depending on the teller." he said. "The players are these; a two year old Papillion named 'Bunky,' now deceased, Emma Sommerlott age 25, occupation - professional girlfriend, also now deceased, Grisha Cervenka, age 27, occupation - chauffeur, and, currently in the custody of Scotland Yard, is Pavel Andreivich Andropov, age 43, occupation - gangster."

"So let me guess," Molly said, sipping Sherlock's tea. It was very good. And not decaf. Oh well. "The chauffeur was having an affair with the girlfriend, so the gangster killed her and her dog? It sounds like a bad police show."

"Very astute. That's exactly the conclusion the usual gang of idiots down at Scotland Yard have come to."

"And they're wrong because?"

"Their explanation doesn't fit with the evidence. Point one: Grisha Cervenka is strictly homosexual. Andropov hand picked him as Emma Sommerlott's chauffeur for precisely that reason. Not much chance he was tapping the boss's bottle blonde. Point two: everyone, from The Yard to Interpol to the FBI has been trying to arrest Andropov for years, and now he gets sloppy and kills his girlfriend in a fit of jealousy? Highly unlikely. No matter what, or whom, she was doing, I doubt, from Andropov's perspective, Emma Sommerlott was worth killing."

"Maybe he paid someone?" Molly suggested.

"Again," he said, "the evidence doesn't support it. Next, the wounds. Emma Sommerlott's dog was not shot defensively, as one would expect were it bravely trying to fend off his mistress's attacker. No, Bunky was shot execution style in the back of the head," he said, pantomiming the act of shooting a small dog. "Look."

He handed Molly a series of postmortem photos and notes. "Yes. Looks self-inflicted. Not necessarily, though." She looked at the bottom of the notes. "Dr. Rayburn did this? He does excellent work, Sherlock. He's very thorough."

"He does adequate work," Sherlock dismissed. "Excellent work would have been allowing me more than cursory access to the body."

"Right," she said. "Go on."

"Emma herself was shot with the same small caliber handgun, a woman's gun, the sort of weapon a gangster might give his kept woman for personal protection. It was placed firmly against her right temple, not at point blank range, but like the dog, with an actual contact shot. The barrel was placed up against her temple and the trigger pulled." He held two fingers to his own head in illustration. "Have you any idea how difficult that is to accomplish on an unwilling subject?"

"Not from personal experience, no," Molly said. "So you think it was suicide?"

"I know it was suicide," Sherlock countered. He tucked the violin into its case.

"And why don't the police see things your way?" Molly asked. The way Sherlock put it was enough to convince her.

"Because they're stupid?" Sherlock said. "That, combined with the fact that if they can manage to bring in Andropov and make it stick, it'll be Christmas at The Yard."

She couldn't think of the last time she knew Sherlock to be wrong about anything like this. Well, apart from Jim, and he'd been very wrong about that. Perhaps she sympathized with the police a bit. You couldn't just take Sherlock's words as gospel, because when he did get it wrong, he really got it wrong.

"The chauffeur, Cervenka, he said Andropov didn't love her. He said, and I quote 'He wears her on his arm like jewellery'. That means something," Sherlock said.

"So what do you have to do?" she asked. "What do you need to prove?"

"Two things. I need to explain why Emma Sommerlott would kill her animal, which, by all reports, she doted on to excess. And I need to find the weapon."

"No idea about the weapon," she said, placed the now empty mug on the table.

"I can answer the first one, though."

"You can?" Sherlock asked, clearly surprised.

"She loved the dog, right? She probably couldn't stand the thought of leaving it behind. There was probably no one she trusted to take care of it. And she was probably afraid to die alone." Molly explained. "And, well, look. She was going to kill herself, right?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"And that takes nerve. But if she killed the dog first, it would have been so horrible, she would have done something so awful, that she'd have to go through with it. I mean, once you've killed your dog, how do you live with yourself?"

"Oh. Oh, of course. OF COURSE! Get up, put your shoes on," he ordered.

"What? Why? No."

"Yes. We're going to Scotland Yard.

"It's raining and cold and - and - 1:30 am. I'm wearing my pajamas, Sherlock," she told him. "Let me get dressed."

He was texting like mad. "No time," he said rushing her along. "It doesn't matter, put on my coat, no one will know the difference."

"I can't wear your coat," she protested. "Your coat weighs more than I do."

"Not at present, it doesn't," he said.

"Sher-lock."

"Please," he said, draping his coat over her shoulders. "They'll believe you."

"Why would they believe me?"

Sherlock all but rolled his eyes. "You're a pathologist. You see suicides all the time. They'll assume you have some special insight."

"But -"

He grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her toward the stairs. "Our cab is here. Come along."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

It was wet and cold, and Molly would have felt sorry for Sherlock, his lips and nose cherry red, if he'd hadn't been the idiot who dragged her out in her pajamas in the first place.

Scotland Yard. Molly had never been to Scotland Yard, and she certainly hadn't foreseen going in her flannel drawstring pajama bottoms and an old chip shop T-shirt, one of the dozen or so she had kept for sentimental reasons. She was glad she had at least removed that ratty dressing gown. She pulled Sherlock's coat tight.

"Hello, Freak." It was a beautiful, perfectly made-up, perfectly dressed woman and she seemed to be talking to Sherlock. "Should've known you'd show up."

"Good evening, Sgt. Donovan," Sherlock said, hardly seeming to notice. "Lestrade's arrived? Would you like to let him know I've solved your case, or shall I?"

Sgt. Donovan looked Molly up and down. "And this is?"

"She's with me," Sherlock said, impatiently.

"Did he abduct you?" the Sergeant asked. "Follow you home?"

"Sally, you are as repetitious as you are tedious. Where's Lestrade?"

"All you have to do is call and we'll see that he leaves you alone," she said. "Ask for Sgt. Donovan."

Molly was stunned. No one she worked with, even the ones who hated Sherlock, would talk to him this way. "Excuse me?"

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Detective Inspector Lestrade did not especially enjoy being at the office after midnight. Nor did he especially enjoy being at the office because a case was about to be torpedoed. When Sherlock Holmes was the one torpedoing it, he liked it even less. If Sherlock said a case was off, it was off.

He could hear the row from the corridor. When he rounded the corner, he saw them, almost nose to nose, Sally Donovan and Dr. Molly Hooper.

What the hell?

"Molly? What are you doing here?"

"The Freak dragged her in," Sally said.

"This officer, her conduct, it's - it's - very unprofessional," Hooper said, indignantly. She turned back to Sally. "He's not a freak, and even-"

"Sherlock? Where is he?" Lestrade asked. "He texted me -"

"He texted everybody," Sally said. "I woke up my whole bloody family trying to sneak out. How often do I have to change my bloody mobile number?"

"Sergeant - " Lestrade warned.

"He said he needed to talk to um, a - a Russian gangster," Dr. Hooper said.

"Andropov?" Sally asked.

"And you're here because?" he asked Dr Hooper.

Molly rubbed her forehead. "I've no idea, honestly."

"The Freak abducted her," Sally said.

"Sally, honest to Christ -"

"Yes, sir," Sally replied grudgingly . "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again. Sir."

Chance would be a fine thing there, Lestrade thought, and a damned good thing Sally was excellent at doing her job. He should leave Dr. Hooper here with a desk sergeant, but she was a pathologist, and if Sherlock brought her along, he must have done so for a reason. Not necessarily a reason that made any sense, mind -

"All right, Mol - Dr. Hooper, if you'll follow me, please. Sally, I could murder a cup of tea. See that I do, yeah?"

Sally scowled, but gave one sharp nod, and headed off.

He hadn't spent more than a minute in passing with Dr. Hooper since they'd danced at John Watson's wedding. It had been months since Sherlock had dragged him down to Barts morgue. He'd had no idea Molly was expecting.

And why was she wearing Sherlock's coat?

"So, I see congratulations are in order," he said, as they walked to the lift.

"Thank you," she said.

Lestrade had to puzzle this out. If Dr. Hooper were working the night shift, Sherlock might have dragged her from Barts without her coat. Except -

Except she was wearing flannel drawstring trousers with yellow ducks all over them. He didn't think anyone had a dress code that lax, even a mortuary.

For the first time all day, Andropov disappeared entirely from Lestrade's thoughts.

Sherlock Holmes had dragged a pregnant woman who had no bearing on the case whatsoever out of bed in the middle of the night to see a Russian mobster. What kind of arse did that? Had it been anyone else, he would have assumed the bed Dr. Hooper had been dragged from belonged to said arse, or that said arse had been in her bed, but as far as he knew, Sherlock wasn't interested in humans, let alone girls.

"So," he said as the lift bell rang, "what brings you out tonight?"

"Sherlock?" she more asked than answered.

"Yeah, I gathered," Lestrade replied. "Why'd he do that?"

"We're, um, we're sort of neighbors," she said.

"Baker Street? Yeah? How's that working out?" Lestrade said, half to himself.

"Not bad, really," she said. "Turns out he likes to play the violin at odd hours, though."

"John bought earplugs. Lots of them." He grinned. "Sherlock can be a git," he said conversationally.

"He doesn't try to be, I don't think," she answered. It was a little too quick and a little too defensive, to Lestrade's mind.

"He doesn't try not to be, either," Lestrade answered. "Here we are."

There, big as life and at least twice as ugly, was Andropov. And leaning against the wall across from him, was Sherlock. They were both speaking rapidly in Russian. Going by the two of them, you never would have noticed there were bars between them.

Sherlock turned his head with a little shrug. "Ah, good morning, Inspector," he said. "I'm afraid you're going to have to drop this charge. He's innocent, in this one instance, at least. Your case will never hold up."

Lestrade grimaced. "Damn it."

"Maybe next time," Sherlock said airily. "It's not as if the man isn't involved in everything from drug running to prostitution to weapons smuggling. All you lot need to do is find some real charges and make them stick. How difficult can that be? Oh, wait, very, apparently."

Lestrade noticed Sherlock's eyes flick over Molly. He seemed, for half a second, to be asking for her approval. But he didn't speak to her.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Lestrade shook off the distraction of whatever was going on between Sherlock and Molly and got back to Andropov. "Fine. Explain it to me."

"Oh yes, please do," the Russian said in his heavy accent.

"Emma Sommerlott committed suicide. Grisha Cervenka blamed Andropov's treatment of her and sought to frame him for the crime that, in Cervenka's eyes at least, he was responsible for," Sherlock said. "Andropov hired Cervenka not only because he was gay and therefore had no interest in sampling the goods, as it were, but, if I am not mistaken, because he is Andropov's oldest sister's grandson." He turned to Andropov. "Da?"

Andropov nodded once. "Da."

"The fact that a man prefers sex with other men doesn't render him incapable of developing tender feelings for a woman. Cervenka had been her driver and minder from the time she was sixteen. Sommerlott's acquaintances, as few as they were, told me Cervenka and she were very close. They assumed it was an affair, but I think you'll find it was simply a case of a very lonely woman having no one else with whom to talk, and a close bond of friendship developing over time."

"Which proves what, exactly?" Lestrade asked.

"Sommerlott had been depressed for an extended period, was becoming more and more so. Cervenka knew this, went to Andropov with his concerns about Sommerlott, only to discover Andropov didn't really care. Sommerlott was only jewellery, after all, and Andropov was ready for something new."

"Okay," Lestrade said. Nothing new there.

"Sommerlott finally reached her limit. Using a very delicate small-caliber handgun that Andropov had given her, and which she always kept in her handbag, she shot her dog, then herself. End of story."

"But what about the evidence?" Lestrade asked. "There was no gunpowder residue on her hands. With suicide by gun, it's nearly always present."

"That's often true, but look here." Sherlock produced his phone, called up the crime scene photos, zoomed in. "Sommerlott wasn't expecting a visit from Andropov the evening she killed herself, and hadn't had a visit from him in ages. She knew what this meant; she was almost 25, after all, and her best years as a mobster's girlfriend were over. She was in her unalluring but no doubt comfortable bedclothes when she was found - a short sleeved cotton tee-shirt and matching pajama bottoms. Had she been expecting Andropov, she'd have dressed better. Had she not been expecting him and had him show up anyway, she most likely would have been naked, or some variation thereof."

"But if it was a hit -"

"The shooter would have killed her when she opened the door," Sherlock said, impatiently. "They'd have found her body there instead of on her bed, obviously.

Now, the nightclothes; notice the tiny discolorations on the leg of the pajama bottoms, where the colour has faded?"

"What of it?"

"Come," Sherlock said and waved Molly to him. She walked over and Sherlock positioned her so she was standing in front of him, her back to his front, turned away from Andropov. "For our purposes, this is Sommerlott." He formed her right hand into the shape of a gun. "She shoots her dog, bang, then shoots herself in the head, bang."

"Right."

"Cervenka comes in, finds her. He's upset. Family or not, employer or not, he thinks Andropov should pay for using Sommerlott up and throwing her away. He's watched entirely too many American police dramas, and thinks the most important thing he can do is clean up the gun shot residue. So he goes to Sommerlott's bathroom, retrieves a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and very carefully cleans her right arm up to the edge of the sleeve. What he doesn't realize is that some of it got on that same sleeve. It doesn't discolour immediately like bleach. No, it takes a few hours. The other thing he didn't count on was, once he placed her arm against her leg, the tiny bit remaining on her arm would discolour the pajamas here, here, and here. See?"

Lestrade nodded. "Go on."

"Sommerlott also had a bracelet, 17.22 carats of diamonds, set in platinum, which she habitually wore on her right arm. She was never without it, and yet it was not found on her body, it was not at the crime scene, it was not in her jewellery box, ergo, it was removed after she killed herself."

"Because it was valuable?" Lestrade asked.

"Because it was valuable, and because it was filthy. It would have had gun powder residue as well as canine and human blood, perhaps fur and hair, under the ornate findings. Cervenka would have seen the mess and either removed it with the intention of cleaning it and returning it to the body, or, more likely, with the intention of selling it. It was, obviously, worth quite a bit."

"Or he might have taken it as a keepsake," Molly supplied. "They were friends, according to you. He might have realized he couldn't get it clean and just kept it to remember her by."

"Also a possibility," Sherlock conceded, but not easily, Lestrade noticed.

"Whatever the truth, he removed it from the body. Odds are you'll find he still has it."

"And the suicide weapon?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Thames?"

"Great," Lestrade said. "Thanks for nothing."

Sherlock turned to Andropov. "You should be free in no time at all, Andreivich."

Andropov rattled off something in Russian.

Sherlock frowned. "Nyet," he said. He turned to Molly and Lestrade. "Let's go, shall we?"

They reached the hall past the holding cells. "Damn it, Sherlock -" Lestrade began.

"Spare me," Sherlock said. He was googling furiously. "You knew your case was rubbish or you'd have brought me in a great deal sooner. That murder charge was never going to stick. However, consider this an anonymous tip: if you go to this address -" he held up the screen - "you'll probably find an enormous cache of illegal firearms. The name over the door will probably be some variation of Magda or Magdalena."

Lestrade looked at the screen. It was in the docks, warehouses mostly.

"Magda?"

"His mother's name," Sherlock supplied. "Andropov is, as they say, all about family."

"You worked this out, how?"

"Speaking to him. Andropov thinks he's very clever. He's not."

"And Cervenka?"

"If he isn't dead already, he will be shortly. Andropov is not THAT concerned about family." Sherlock's attention was back on his phone. "Really Lestrade, you should get some people on that." And he strode away.

Clearly, he was being dismissed. Lovely. And he realized Sherlock's last shift of the eyes meant Lestrade should take Molly with him.

Molly stood next to him, in Sherlock's enormous coat, looking equal parts bedraggled street kid and furious wet hen.

"I mentioned he could be a git, yeah?"

"Yes," Molly said. "Yes, you did."

"He'll be back," Lestrade said, hoping he was right about that. "Come up to my office, I'll get you a cup of tea while I try to get this sorted. Or would you prefer I got an officer to take you home?"

Her phone chirped, signaling a text, before she could answer him. Within seconds, so did Lestrade's.

"It's Sherlock," Molly said.

"I'm to keep you in my office until His Lordship returns," Lestrade said.

"How does he do that?" Molly asked.

Lestrade waved the way forward. "No one knows."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly had known Geoff Lestrade in a vague sort of way for years before The Jim Business. He'd come with Sherlock to the mortuary at least once a month. And then, after The Jim Business, Lestrade had been one of the dozens of coppers who had questioned her, seemingly for days, about her non-existent involvement in the bombings.

He was very nice, really. She always thought of him as a nice man. Before.

Lestrade had made four or five phone calls in the space of an hour or so, and Sergeant Donovan had brought her tea, biscuits, and a disapproving look. Molly hadn't listened to the details of the calls Lestrade made, not, she realized, because she wasn't interested, but because she was growing steadily more cross-eyed with exhaustion. It was nearly 3 am. She was supposed to be at work in 5 hours.

"Right," Lestrade said, ringing off one final time and startling her out of her stupor. "That's that sorted. So, again congratulations. You must be very excited. It's your first, yeah? When are you due?"

"Yes, my first, and yes, very excited." she answered. "I'm due about the end of December."

"Really?" Lestrade said. "I'm sorry, I just thought, well, you look a bit further along."

"Big baby," Molly said. She was starting to wonder if there might be someplace she could curl up for a bit. Maybe a cell? They had beds, right?

"Father's a big bloke then, is he?"

Molly nodded. Maybe there was a sofa somewhere. "Well, not big really. Tall."

"Is he?" Lestrade asked. "He a doctor as well?"

"No, he's, he's -" Something in her sleepy brain switched on, suddenly sending her to full alert. "No," she said more forcefully. "Not a doctor."

"What's he do, then?"

Molly blinked at him. "Why do you ask, Inspector?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Just making conversation until Sherlock returns. If he remembers."

"I'm sure he'll be back," she said.

"He used to forget about John all the time," Lestrade said. "One minute he'd be standing there, prattling on about something, the next, John and I'd look up, Sherlock had disappeared. He does that - disappears."

"Does he?" she asked. Her hands were shaking. She wanted to believe it was the result of sleepiness, but she knew better. She clutched her mug tighter to try to quell the tremor.

"Not the most reliable of blokes," Lestrade continued. "Brilliant, yeah, and my wife tells me he's very good looking, not that I see it, mind, but reliable, he's not that, is he?"

She took a sip of her room-temperature tea. "You seem to rely on him quite a bit."

"Fair point," Lestrade conceded. "But we can't count on him, you know? If it's not interesting enough or challenging enough or weird enough, he usually just leaves us hanging. He's gets bored so easy. And paperwork? Forget it. He's bollocks when it comes to follow-through."

Molly closed her eyes. Anger and exhaustion were a bad combination, and she had both to spare, now. She was afraid she was about to say or do something she'd regret. She took a deep breath and said nothing, hoping Lestrade would take the hint.

"You know what I noticed?" Lestrade said. "I noticed Sherlock was moving around a bit when we got down to the holding cells. I couldn't figure it out at first, but I realize now that he was trying to keep Andropov from getting a good look at you. Why would he do that?"

Molly set her mug down carefully. "I don't know. I've no idea," she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Well, I suppose if it was Lana - you met Lana at John's wedding, yeah? 'Course you did - I remember introducing you - if it was Lana, I'd have done the same thing. I mean, I wouldn't want a dangerous criminal getting a good look at my wife. But then, you aren't Sherlock's wife, are you, Molly?"

She inhaled slowly. She was furious, now. Sherlock was her secret and she didn't want to share what was between them, whatever it was, with anyone else. It was no one's business. "Are you trying to say something, Inspector?"

"Nope." He shook his head. "Not at all. I just hope you know what you're doing."

The office door swung open then. Sherlock looked first at Lestrade, then at Molly, then at Lestrade again. His demeanour shifted suddenly, from cocky and arrogant to annoyed, very annoyed in Molly's opinion. "I take it you're finished with 'us', Inspector?" he said, a hint of real anger in his voice.

"Yup, all sorted," Lestrade said. "Thanks for your help, Sherlock. Nice seeing you, Molly, and congratulations again."

Molly, too furious to speak, simply rose and gave a short, sharp nod.

Sherlock gave Lestrade a final withering look. "Come along, Molly," Sherlock said, leaving the tiny office and clearly expecting Molly to follow.

"Good night," she said, out of habit.

"Good night to you too, Dr. Hooper. Oh, and, nice coat."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

When Sherlock's next interesting case materialized, it seemed only natural to him that he go to Barts to collect Molly.

"A body has been found without head, hands, or feet!" he called as he entered the mortuary. "It's Christmas, New Year, and the day Mycroft broke a tooth eating a Jaffa cake, all in one!"

Molly sat at her desk, filling out paperwork. "I'm sure I'll see the poor dear eventually."

"Why wait? You can come to Kensington Gardens with me and see it right now."

She looked up, pen poised. She tapped it against her lower lip three times. "No," she said. "Thanks, but no."

"What? Why not?"

Molly frowned. "I'm at work, Sherlock. It's the middle of my shift. I can't just leave."

"You're doing paperwork. Paperwork's boring."

"It most certainly is," she agreed with a sigh. "But it's got to be done and I'm the one they pay to do it."

"Why? Can't they hire a mindless drone for that?"

Molly lifted one brow. "I'll pretend that's a compliment, shall I?" she replied, then bent back to her task.

"Are you afraid one of the corpses will get up and run away before you can catalogue its organs? The forms will fill themselves out improperly if you leave them on the desk unattended?"

"I said no, Sherlock."

This was not going according to plan at all. Molly was supposed to accede to his request without question, and by now, they were supposed to be in a cab and well on their way. Why was she being difficult?

Sherlock looked at her carefully. He could tell from the way she held herself that she was still experiencing lower back pain, and that it had probably intensified over the past few days. He knew first-hand her sleep was being regularly interrupted by more and more frequent trips to the loo. Her wrists and ankles were swollen and tender, but had been for months. The slightly pinched expression suggested a headache. So it was reasonable to assume that these were contributing factors to her less-than-acceptable refusal to accompany him. Perhaps he needed to approach this from a different angle.

"Look, Molly -"

She looked up, jabbed the pen in his direction "Don't even try it, Sherlock."

"Try what?"

"Harassing me. Bullying me. Insulting me. Worse yet, flattering me," she said. "Just do not try it. I have not had caffeine in months. I'm not in the mood for any of it."

"But -"

"Can I see your phone?" she asked before he could form a proper reply.

"What for?"

She held out her hand. "Please?"

It was such an odd request, he did as she asked.

She scrolled through the contact list, found what she was looking for, sent off a brief message. "There," she said a few moments later when she handed it back.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"Texted John Watson on your behalf," she answered. Even as she said it, Sherlock's phone vibrated in his hand.

His eyes narrowed as he read the message. "He's now on his way to Kensington Gardens, apparently," Sherlock said.

"Good. You should be, too, then."

Sherlock agreed. He should be. This nonsense was a waste of valuable time.

But -

"Direct question, Molly: Is this because of, or in some way related to, Lestrade's ham-fisted attempt to interrogate you as to the extent and nature of our involvement during the Andropov case?"

"Oh. Caught that, did you? What am I saying? Of course you did." Molly put down the pen, stretched, then leaned back in her chair. She interlaced her fingers, then set her joined hands on her belly, thinking. After a moment, she said, "No, not, um, not directly. That was a bit, um, uncomfortable, though. But everyone wondered why I was there. I wondered why I was there. Why was I there, Sherlock?"

"You were there in the event that I needed your expertise." He sniffed. "Obviously."

Molly shook her head. "I don't think so. I think I was there because you like having someone on your side."

Sherlock's scoff was entirely reflexive. "Please."

"No, I think I'm right about this. Lestrade's got his people, as useless are you claim they are; why shouldn't you have yours?"

Sherlock did not like the turn this conversation was taking, not in the slightest. Molly had to be joking; the last thing Sherlock needed or wanted was 'people'. "You're very much mistaken, I assure you," he replied icily.

"Oh, don't be like that," she cajoled. "It wasn't an insult. I'm not angry, and I'm not trying to start a row, either. My point is that John is much better suited to the job. He's keen, he's fit, he's available, he knows you're brilliant and usually right, and he's not currently almost 8 months gone. You know I'm right, Sherlock."

Sherlock considered her words. Given those criteria, she was right, he supposed. On the other hand, he was still annoyed with John, although he sometimes had to remind himself why, and even then, the answer didn't always come easily.

John was cool in any number of situations. John liked the challenge. John loved the danger. And he had missed John's company.

Perhaps John had been punished enough.

"Fine. I'll go with John, then. But you're going to miss out."

"It's a burden I can live with," she said, with a bright smile. "If you're in at a reasonable hour, I'll make you a sandwich and you can relate all the gruesome details."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"So I can tell you how brilliant you are, of course," Molly said. "Now go."

Sherlock, entirely bored with the whole matter, went. John was a better marksman, anyway.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

She didn't see him again for four days and three nights.

On the fourth night, a little after 3 am, Sherlock appeared in her bedroom. He switched on her bedside lamp and gently shook her shoulder. "Is this a reasonable hour?" he asked. "I'm starving."

Molly glanced at her alarm clock, then squinted up at him, prepared to tell him just how unreasonable the hour truly was, when she noticed the cut on his cheek. "What happened?"

Sherlock rubbed his forehead. "The Chinese place is closed and -" He grimaced.

Suddenly wide awake, Molly sat up as quickly as 8 months of baby would allow. She patted the bed. "Sit. What happened?"

Sherlock rubbed his forehead harder, sat very carefully. "There's no food upstairs."

"There never is. Is it your ribs, Sherlock?"

"John's - John's in hospital."

"Oh God, what happened? Is he okay? Is he going to be all right?"

"Stab wound," Sherlock said. "Leg. They say he will."

"Good. That's, that's good. Are you okay?" Molly said, touching his side and watching him cringe. "I think your ribs are broken."

"Not all of them," he assured her. He made a move as if to remove his jacket, but hissed in pain.

"Let me help you," Molly said. She crawled to the far side of the bed, trying not to jostle him as she went. She tugged at first one sleeve then the other, easing him out of the garment. "Sherlock, what happened?"

"The murder case," he said. "Decapitation, dismemberment, Kensington Gardens?"

"Yes, I remember," she said, unbuttoning his buttons, carefully, one by one. His ribs had been taped, professionally, so that was something. Angry plum-coloured bruises showed beyond the borders of the tape, though. She winced in sympathy, not wanting to hurt him any more. "Did they give you anything for the pain?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Just paracetamol. I didn't want - just paracetamol "

"Here, let me take this - " She eased his shirt off next.

"The murderer, Eliot Clark, had suffered from a delusional disorder for years, not quite schizophrenia, from what I understand, but close enough. Drugs worked effectively for the past twenty years or so, but recently, his medications were discontinued. It appeared that his new prescription was working. Then, for some reason known only to himself, he concluded that his wife was having an affair with the neighbour. Mr. Clark's solution was to chop said neighbour to bits. Ouch, careful."

She tapped on the side of his right foot. "Shoe," she said, and proceeded to remove it and its mate. "So, he stabbed John?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, exhaled noisily. "He did."

"Stand up," Molly said. She tugged at his waistband. "Take these off. Do you need help?"

Sherlock shook his head no, but he was wrong, and Molly helped him, leaving him stripped down to his boxers and bandaged ribs. "So he stabbed John and attacked you? Is that what happened?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "I walked in front of a cab."

"You what? Sherlock!"

He cast a glance at her. "It wasn't deliberate," he said as if she wouldn't have been able to work that out on her own.

"Oh my, God." Molly rose. "You could have been killed."

Sherlock blinked at her. "Yes. I wasn't."

She put her hand to his cheek, meaning to check him for signs of concussion, or to kiss him, perhaps both. But Sherlock wrapped his hand round her wrist. "I'm fine, I'll be fine. You -" He paused.

"Me? What about me? I was asleep in my bed," Molly said.

"Not if I'd had my way earlier," Sherlock said. "It would have been you in John's place."

It didn't seem worth arguing the point that, no, it would not have. She had a baby to think about. She would not have followed him so far into this case. She wasn't that brave or that stupid.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. John's going to be okay, you said. So everything's going to be fine. Lie down, yeah?"

"I don't want -"

"Sherlock, just lie down, please."

Sherlock complied. He very gingerly stretched out on the bed, let Molly tuck the duvet up to his chin. The light was more direct here and she could see pale purple bruises on his cheek and under his eyes, cuts and scrapes to his left cheek, and to his chin. His hair was a matted mess. Her heart stuttered. He looked awful.

"Sarah's livid." Sherlock said as he closed his eyes.

"I think that's understandable," Molly said. "She'll forgive you, though."

Sherlock snorted, then winced. "Will she?"

"Of course she will," Molly assured him. "You're irresistible when you want to be. I should know."

Sherlock smiled without opening his eyes.

"Besides, John loves it. If he weren't tearing about with you, he'd find some other trouble to get into."

"You think?" Sherlock asked like a boy who wants to know if his best mate will be let out to play after his piano lesson.

"I know," Molly said. "Now, you said you're hungry. Is there something you'd like?"

"Anything would be welcome at this point," Sherlock said. "Anything."

"Okay, I'm sure I can scare up something." She turned to go.

"Could I have the remote?" he asked. "You know, the point of a remote control is lost when you store it atop the telly."

Molly rolled her eyes. "For a man who claims to hate watching television, you watch an awful lot of it," she said and handed it over.

"I'm just whimsical," he said, his voice as dry as bone-meal.

Molly chuckled and headed for the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, she returned with a cheese and tomato sandwich and a mug of tea, only to find Sherlock sound asleep.

Well, that was new. Sherlock never deliberately slept in her bed.

She set the food on the bedside table, perched as gently as she could on the edge of the bed. She had an almost overwhelming desire to run her fingers through his hair, but she feared she'd discover tender spots on his scalp and wake him. He probably hadn't slept more than a few minutes in days.

Molly had noticed scars, of course, small burns on his fingers and wrists, no doubt the result of experimental precautions not taken or gone awry, knees and elbows that had been skinned and scraped permanently pink. But there were others, too, like the remnant of stitches just below his lip, and a faint line across his left palm that she'd deliberately not noticed looked like the sort of scar someone received when they grabbed a blade. There was a mark on his left shoulder, too, which looked too much like a bullet graze for it to be anything else, and two tiny punctures to the front and back of his right calf which, now that she gave it some thought, might have been the entrance and exit sites of one wound. And the thin pink vertical line on his abdomen, the one he didn't even like her noticing, much less touching.

Molly closed her eyes. He'd been punched. Cut. Shot. Stabbed. Christ alone knew what else.

She carried the sandwich back to the kitchen, wrapped it in cling film, put it in the fridge. Wiped her tears on a tea towel.

She crawled back into her nest of pillows, curled onto her left side, and refused to think about any of it.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly woke up some time past ten with Sherlock's head resting just below her belly. Her Quick Eddie's Chip Shop shirt had been bunched up around her clavicle and Sherlock was literally sucking her breast in his sleep.

Molly blinked. Yes, that was exactly what was happening.

He must have done it in his sleep, because she couldn't imagine him doing it while he was awake, not his meaning to do it. He was sleeping so hard, and sucking slowly but intently, curled up smaller than she ever could have imagined possible.

Well, this was awkward. Bad enough he'd spent the night in her bed - without sex, mind - and he'd probably streak out of there like his hair was on fire once he realized it. But this?

She looked down at his bruised cheek. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass him. Carefully, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. Then quickly, she rolled, jerking her nipple out of his mouth.

She could feel him startle and sit up but she kept pretending.

It was an odd thing to pretend to someone who knows you're pretending, made worse when you know he knows you're pretending. But she kept on pretending anyway. What else could she do? The status, as her father used to say, had to remain quo.

She continued pretending as Sherlock climbed out of bed and shut off the telly, but almost gave away the game when he pulled the duvet up to her chin, and ran his forefinger the length of her thumb in the process.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was in her flat after work a week later, looking at baby things online, when Sherlock stood behind her chair and put his hands on her shoulders.

Oh God, was it always going to be like that? she wondered. Was it always going to be like she'd stuck a fork in an electric outlet when he touched her?

The sensation only got worse when he bent down and kissed just below her left ear.

Before her brain could make sense of that particular anomaly, he purred, "A bacon sandwich would be lovely."

Ah. There it was.

"You're trying to manipulate me," she said without turning round.

"And?" he said. "I want a sandwich."

"You could try asking nicely." she said.

"I thought I just did," he said. "Oh. Please and thank you."

She shook her head. "Have you any bread?" she asked. "I'm out and the last time I looked all you had in your fridge were things you nicked from the lab."

"I went to Sainsbury's," he said, studying the ceiling. "And if you watched me take it and didn't say anything, it wasn't actually 'nicked,' was it? I could just as easily have taken them without you noticing."

"Did you get bacon?" she asked. Sherlock was a genius, but sometimes he forgot things like bacon being an indispensable part of a bacon sandwich.

"See for yourself," he said.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was finished cooking up the bacon but hadn't started the sandwiches when Sherlock walked up behind her and shoved all the bacon in his mouth at once.

He swallowed hard. "Change of plans; no time for sandwiches."

"Um?" she squeaked.

"Going to Texas." He took a slice of the bread she smeared with brown sauce and made it disappear in two substantial bites, and followed it with a slice of Wensleydale. She wondered, vaguely if they even had Wensleydale in Texas.

"Wait. What? Texas?" she asked.

"Case," he said.

"Well, obviously there's a case," she said. "What is it? Murder?"

"There have been deaths involved, but the crux of the matter is a rather large rock," he said, heading toward his bedroom.

"A rock? Oh." She felt herself relax. A rock probably wouldn't try to stab him. Or shoot him.

"Yes, a rock. A meteorite. Would you make yourself useful and bring me my passport from the mantle?" he shouted. "It's a meteorite of some contention. Apparently a Native American tribe has a suit filed against a certain museum for this meteorite's return, which is problematic since it's gone. The museum would appreciate it being located before the tribe secures evidence that the meteorite is missing and decides the state has been acting in bad faith, a conclusion that is not without precedent."

"I see." She didn't, not entirely, but it didn't sound dangerous.

The mantle was covered with papers, books, cds, a flash drive, various keys, currency and coins of several nations, and three wet mounted slides, all arranged in various stacks and piles. There was also a stack of envelopes pinned to the wood with a jackknife. Underneath a book on skin diseases associated with syphilis, she found his passport. Sherlock Vernet Holmes.

Vernet? Well, it wasn't going to be Fred, was it?

Then she noticed three more passports peaking out from under a book on public sanitation in 18th century Rome.

"Found it," she called. "Or them, rather. Who do you want to be - Sherlock, Richard, Nigel, or Sigerson? Sigerson?"

"Long, tedious story," he answered. "Sherlock Holmes will suit my purposes this time round." Suitcase in hand, he took the passport and was heading for the stairs.

"Is that it?" she said. "You're off, just like that?"

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. "Good evening?" he said.

Molly felt like she had to say something. "Do they have cabs in Texas?" she asked.

"Yes?"

Molly nodded. "I was afraid of that."

Next thing she knew, she was kissing him. Not a peck on the cheek, or quick meeting of the lips, but a full-on snog. And he was kissing her back.

Heart racing, she pulled away long before she wanted to, but long after it was a good idea to have done so.

Sherlock frowned at her. His expression fell somewhere between perplexed and annoyed.

"What?" she asked.

"That was not a greeting or a parting, per se. That was foreplay," he said dourly.

Molly felt herself blushing. "No, that was, that was 'don't step in front of any cabs.'"

Sherlock actually stood there and considered, pursing his lips. "Ah. I see." Like something out of a film, he dropped his luggage, reached out, took her in his arms, and kissed her. Thoroughly, tongue in her mouth, one hand tangled in her hair, the other behind her back. She had to grab fistfuls of his shirt to keep her balance.

"And that was 'no, I wasn't planning to'," he said and picked his bags up again.

Dazed, Molly shook her head. "Good," she said. "Good."

By the time that she realized this was the first time they'd actually kissed without it being followed immediately by sex, he was already gone.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Eight days later Molly received the following text:

IN THE US COCA COLA IS USED TO CLEAN BLOOD SPILLS OFF ROADWAYS

-SH

She had no idea what the point of that was, but she saved it, just the same.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock could easily have kept a list - a very long list - of things he had been called behind his back. He could have, but he didn't. As he allowed himself to be shepherded through the warren of offices, he heard a very specific set of syllables repeated over and over on the security radios, something along the lines of 'too-yuh-nigh-voe'. He would have been eighty percent certain they were referring to himself, had he not bought a Numic dictionary the night before. He was one hundred percent sure, now.

He wasn't even convinced that they meant it as an insult.

Finally, they reached their destination. Behind the regulation 'important person' desk sat a man with long black plaits and a very expensive, very well-tailored suit.

Sherlock bowed, just slightly, because it seemed appropriate, and sat down in the slightly lower seat. Mummy would have been pleased.

The Chairman thanked Sherlock for his fine work, his attention to detail, and a great deal more that Sherlock didn't bother to listen to. When the Chairman made a show of pulling out a chequebook, Sherlock smiled politely and said, "I was wondering if it might not be possible for you to transfer the funds directly to my account. It will save me the trouble of attempting to cash a cheque written out to 'All Neck'."

With a smile, the Chairman acquiesced.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was online paying her bills when she noticed that her numbers were off.

There in the account were twenty-two thousand pounds that hadn't been there the day before.

She stood up, walked to the bathroom, washed her face.

She looked back at her computer.

Still there.

This could only be Sherlock's doing.

He'd been paid for the case.

Which meant he'd solved the case.

Which meant he was on his way back.

What was the point of being upset about the money, again?

He was going to keep giving it to her. He didn't mean anything bad by it. Maintenance, he'd said.

Fine.

Decision made, Molly opened up another tab on her computer, and bought a very nice cot for the baby, a rocker for herself, and rather a lot of nappies.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was mid-way through a rerun of Doc Martin when Mrs. Hudson knocked about the over-paid rent. She was a wonderful tenant, quiet as a mouse, and very clean, and Mrs. Hudson felt she had excellent taste in decor, but, well, the poor girl was as animated as the average turnip. Mrs. Hudson supposed that had something to do with her due date being so near and her being so large, but still, it wasn't a good idea for her to just sit there.

"Molly, love, when was the last time you went anywhere other than work?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"If you don't count Tesco, I guess it's been awhile," Molly said with a rueful smile

Mrs. Hudson had heard enough. "Right then, put on some decent clothes and fix your face, dear, and we'll go out for a bit. I've just the thing."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

It was, he was discovering, a strange and useless sort of frustration to want to give something you cannot name to a person who never asks for anything.

Back in the Barts-Only era of Molly Hooper, he thought it was a virtue of hers that she did things for him and never wanted anything in return. Now, it was something of a nuisance. Women stayed because they got what they wanted. But what did Molly want?

The child was nearly a fait accompli. She had a flat with which she seemed happy and could, thanks to him, easily afford. Her job was secure. Sex was not an issue. Materially, she was comfortable, and would be for some time to come.

So how was he to keep Molly from deciding she wanted something else? Or something more? Or something better? He was blindly stabbing in the dark, trying to keep her happy. The woman was an enigma.

Before he left London, Molly had, for the first time, asked Sherlock for something, specifically that he not step in front of a cab. In reality, she had kissed him soundly and asked that he sign a sexual promissory note, whereas none had ever been needed before. Why now? What had changed? Was it simply what she perceived, incorrectly, as his near-death experience? Or was there more to it?

It was a challenge.

He considered these questions as he made his way to Baker Street, only to find Molly resolutely not there. The one time he felt he knew what she wanted - repayment of said note in full - he was going to have to hunt her down.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

When, thanks to the concealed GPS unit in her phone, he found Molly, she was with Mrs. Hudson. At Mothercare. Looking at baby things.

It was like sitting in a bucket of ice water.

He went straight home and changed into his rattiest pajamas and dressing gown.

Two hours later, Molly and Mrs. Hudson came in with their arms full of bags, laughing. Not a thought in the world about Sherlock Holmes. Not, he reminded himself, that it mattered. All the things - sex, food, a willing ear - that Molly provided for him were mere niceties. If she was distracted enough to forget him, far be it from him to remind her. He'd done without those things for years; he could do without them until she remembered that he existed.

He went to get a book to read, and he did not step lightly. He sat in his chair, again, none too lightly.

He took his Strad in hand, but thought better of it. She should have heard him already, not that he cared.

He laid his fingers on the bridge and silently fingered the notes he would play if he wanted her to hear, keeping the bow safely away from the strings. He imagined the sound waves caressing her eardrums like spider webs floating in the clear air. The notes would wrap round her and cover her and clothe her and she would forget about silly things like babies.

He closed his eyes and imagined the sounds. He imagined them so clearly they cut through the disappointed air. Pure intention filled the empty space between them, Sherlock in his flat, Molly, in hers. Intention, drawing her to him. Intention was the difference between murder and manslaughter but it didn't make the victim any less dead. Intention so strong he could practically hear her now lumbering tread on the stairs. How much bigger could she get?

Honestly, it was a bit surreal to think he had made her change her shape so radically with a simple sex act. Technically, he understood how it worked, but -

"Sherlock! You're home!" Molly called cheerfully. "Why didn't you phone me?"

He opened his eyes. Oh, apparently he had been playing. And there Molly was. Not that he cared.

He shrugged.

She was still smiling. "I saw you got the museum its rock back."

"No, I didn't," he said.

"You didn't?" she asked. "Oh. Um, then why were you paid? Someone put a great deal of money in my account, so I assumed -"

"Oh yes," he said, setting down his Strad. "That was my fee, yes, but I wasn't hired by the museum. It was from the tribe. They were very pleased with my work."

"Goodness, you scared me," Molly said, hand to her chest.

Sherlock couldn't help it; he laughed. "You should have seen your face."

Molly looked startled, then laughed along, nervously.

Sherlock suddenly felt strangely uncomfortable, almost as though he were naked. He wanted to tell Molly to go away. He also wanted to grab her by the hand and keep her close. Kiss her soundly. And, he was quite hungry.

Perhaps that was the problem; he had been saving room for a chip butty, or some other nutritionally disreputable item, the sort of thing that would make his mother indignant. But he did not currently feel comfortable asking Molly to fire up the fryer. That didn't stop him from being famished.

"Mrs. Hudson," he called, as loudly as he could, and set off for his bedroom, "put your shoes back on. The three of us are going for Italian. Do hurry."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock read all his periodicals, online and in print. He read through his mail, both real-world and electronic. He took a shower. He went to bed.

Then he laid there in his bed and quietly drove himself mad.

There was that thing again, that 'feeling' thing. That sensation that he ought to be able to do more to secure Molly's continued presence than provide her all the sex and money he had to offer. She could go; he knew it was possible. She could simply decide to leave in the morning and he couldn't help the feeling there ought to be something he could do or say that, like a key in a lock, could close the door out forever.

But what, exactly?

If he were an idiot, he would tell her that he loved her. Wholly aside from the fact that romantic love was a staple of fools and fairy stories, that it existed only in the imagination, it wouldn't have been of any use; every day, women left men who claimed to love them.

He was definitely not telling her that he loved her. Because he didn't.

But he wanted to tell her - something.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

It was very dark in her bedroom, so she felt, rather than saw, Sherlock beside the bed. The clock blinked 2:03 a.m. at her.

"What is it?" she asked, sounding more churlish than she'd intended.

"My room is cold," he said plaintively.

"It's November," she said. "Turn the heat up."

"I can't sleep," he said.

"And? You want in with me?"

Rather than answer, he climbed in and stretched out beside her, close, but not touching. She couldn't see him, but she imagined he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

She sighed. She knew this point was coming eventually. She just hoped he didn't try to convince her to change her mind. "Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry but, well, it's getting difficult -"

"I know," he said. "It would be not unlike trying to have intercourse with a weather balloon."

Oh, yes, just what every pregnant woman wants to hear, she thought. "So you've been trying to have sex with a weather balloon? Where do you stick your -"

"No, of course not, I - wait, are you teasing me?"

"Not much."

"You missed your calling. You should have been a comedian. They never make me laugh, either," he said.

"Poor Sherlock," she said. They lay side by side in silence for a few moments. Something - perhaps the late hour - made Molly feel suddenly bold. "Um, can I ask you something?"

"You can and may. Strive for precision in speech."

Molly rolled her eyes. "No one enjoys the grammar lessons, Sherlock."

"I do," he said. "What do you want to know?"

It took her a moment. "Just - just everything," she said, honestly.

"Despite the rumours, I do not know everything," he said.

"Okay. Fair enough," she said. "Okay. What-drugs-did-you-take-and-how-bad-was-it-have-you-ever-had-sex-with-a-man-if-so-how-many-and-do-I-need-to-be-concerned-about-disease-and-have-you-ever-had-a-proper-job-and-why-don't-you-play-the-violin-professionally?" she said in two breaths.

Silence followed.

"Right," he said after a moment. "Let's work from the base up, shall we? I am not a concert violinist because I despise audiences."

"What's wrong with audiences?" she asked.

"Aside from everything? The fact that half of them are counting the minutes to the interval. That lot come to concerts not to hear music, but to look cultured or make connections or give themselves a chance to flaunt their sparse learning before those who are similarly ignorant. In a vast theatre filled with people, there will be perhaps ten or fewer who are genuinely interested in listening to the music performed. I find it hateful."

She never would have imagined music would have been the topic to make him foam at the mouth, but Sherlock was quite nearly to that point. She wondered if there was a story behind his reaction or if it was just one of those Sherlock things.

"And after you've played," he continued, "the result of years of painstaking practice and dedication, the sheer labour of performance, is anyone grateful? Never. Instead, the musician is expected to be grateful for the opportunity to break his back playing for people who don't bloody care."

"Not like being a consulting detective," Molly said. "People are grateful for that whether they like you or not."

"Precisely why I have refused to play for an audience since I was twenty, a few undercover instances aside."

"Undercover? What do you mean?"

"Here and there opportunities present themselves to use music as a convincing cover," he said. "One time I was able to fill in for a professor when I needed to gather evidence about an embezzlement scheme. And last year I spent a month in a klezmer band, playing at endless rounds of weddings and bar mitzvahs in order to locate a diamond thief."

Molly tried to picture that, and found she couldn't. "So, a proper job. Have you ever had one?"

"Depends upon your definition of proper. And job."

"You know, you show up every day, nine to five, pay packet, that sort of thing."

Sherlock moved just enough to rest his head against her shoulder. "When I finished uni, I had my choice of offers. I could have gone to work developing surfactants used in drilling for BP, or embarked on the equally scintillating task of analyzing rinse properties for Unilever."

"Doesn't really answer the question." She stretched, slipped her arm under his head.

"Does freelance chemist count?"

"And by freelance chemist you mean what, exactly?"

"Exactly what you think I mean," he said. "It was a long time ago."

"Okay, then," she said. "We'll consider that one a 'no'."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "As for your next question, you are the first and only unprotected sex I've had since boarding school, which should answer the question about homosexual activity as well. I haven't kept an exact tally, but I manage fellatio every two or three months, which averages out to four or five sex acts a year, sometimes less. Hardly voracious."

Giving or receiving? she wondered. "Men or women?" she asked instead.

"Does it matter?" he asked. "I tend to close my eyes."

When he put it that way, she wasn't sure how to disagree.

"What about, um - ?" she began.

"The drugs? Quetiapine and cocaine," he said, quietly.

"Oh." Molly's chest went cold. She hadn't known what she was expecting, but it wasn't that. She'd seen it in the mortuary, of course, too often. They said the antipsychotic quetiapine mitigated the descent after the rush from the cocaine, but in combination, the two caused hallucinations. Oh, Sherlock. "Intravenously?"

In the dark, he grasped her hand. "Yes. But I never shared a needle in my life, if that's what you're really asking. Never. I swear."

Technically, as a doctor, particularly as a pathologist, Molly was aware that intravenous cocaine use was the least physically damaging method of drug delivery, risk of disease from infected needles aside. Of course, it was all a matter of rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic in the end. Christ. Every junkie she'd ever autopsied ran through her brain, and there, jumbled up with them, was Sherlock Holmes, cold and blue, sores on his arms.

"Why, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"The drugs," she said. "You're brilliant and, and beautiful, and, and, why?"

"Am I?"

Molly kissed his forehead. "You are. You know you are. So why?"

Sherlock clearly his throat. "Because - "

He paused for so long she thought perhaps that was all he was going to say. Then he spoke again. "Something was wrong, or not right, and I was attempting to repair it. I was trying to make my mind, make my skin, a bearable place to inhabit."

"Did it work?"

"For short stretches, yes." He sighed. "The problem was that those stretches grew shorter every time, and then it ceased to be a relief at all. Then, I found the work. The work is the only thing that keeps me from going completely mad."

In the dark of her bed, he kissed her hand desperately, and all she could think was, What had she done? What had she bloody done? He was like a walking advert for condoms, and how many times had he come inside her? And this child, tying her to him like an anchor, oh God, was her baby safe?

It had all been so easy when he was an eccentric genius who wore clothes like a male model and strutted through Barts like some intellectual patrician, instead of, of, this mess, this horrible mess of a man who was the father of her unborn child.

This horrible mess of a man, with whom, it was finally obvious even to her, she was hopelessly in love.

She used the word 'whom' correctly; Sherlock and the nuns would be so proud.

"I have never endangered you, Molly, I swear it. You or your child. I - no. No." There were more kisses to the palm of her hand.

She kissed him on the forehead again and again. "It's okay," she whispered over and over. "It's okay."

In minutes, he had drifted off to sleep, but Molly lay awake, wondering at the difference between what she had imagined him to be and what Sherlock was, at the difference between how she pictured it would be to be involved with the most amazing man she'd even met, and the reality of a posh ex-junkie who shouted down the fireplace every time he wanted a pen or to borrow her phone. A man who gave her entirely too much money and was so absolutely brilliantly breathtaking that every time he walked into Barts or onto a crime scene, no one even bothered to look at the corpse.

She loved him desperately, and wondered if she had made the biggest, most lasting mistake of her life.


	5. Chapter 5

On New Year's Day, Molly woke up on the sofa, as was getting to be her habit, because the bed was too hard to get into and out of. Sherlock was asleep on the floor beside the sofa because, once again, they had fallen asleep watching telly. If you could call it that; Sherlock made it impossible to actually watch anything, because lately, he changed the channel almost constantly, and on the rare occasion when he found something acceptable, he shouted at the screen about everything from grammar to motivation to internal inconsistencies. It would be more accurate to call it 'Sherlock versus the Medium.'

She had finally made a rule: he had to stay upstairs when it was time for Doctor Who, rerun or not. She just did not want to hear it.

She looked around, and suddenly, she felt panicked. Her home was a tip. A few months ago, she had moved into a beautiful flat with gorgeous furniture, gleaming fixtures, and Egyptian cotton sheets. Somehow, when she wasn't looking, it had been turned into a magpie's nest, with treasures and rubbish stashed on every surface, in every nook and cranny. She was going to bring her baby home to this?

Not if she had any say in the matter.

With the gleam of motivation in her eye, Molly struggled to her feet and started cleaning her flat, top to bottom, stem to stern. While Sherlock slept, she made quick work of the sitting room.

By the time he woke, she'd already made tea and was scrubbing the hob.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock awoke to discover that, at some point during the night, Molly had gone mad. Everything in her sitting room was hidden away. It looked like John Watson had gone on one of his thoroughly unpleasant tidying rampages.

Sherlock stretched and made his way to the bathroom, wondering, as he emptied his bladder, if it was permissible or even practical to solicit fellatio from a woman in Molly's advanced state of pregnancy. He could hear her banging about as he pondered the logistics involved. He washed his hands and went to Molly's kitchen, deciding along the way that it was an option best left unexplored.

Oh good lord. She was scrubbing the hob. With a toothbrush.

Sherlock sighed. At least there was tea waiting for him, in the cup Molly had designated his. Her personal favorite.

He took a drink. Not the worst cup Molly had ever brewed. So, yes, bad, but not awful. He wondered, not for the first time, what it was about the preparation of infusions that eluded her.

"Morning," he said to her back. He wondered if she was going to make something like breakfast.

He glanced at the clock. 11:03.

Something like tea, then.

On one of her nicer plates, there was a peeled orange and a slice of wholemeal bread with a bit more butter than he liked.

He took a slice from the orange and refused to wonder why she'd peeled it for him.

"I don't know what I was thinking, letting the flat get into such a, a, a state!" she said, scrubbing vigorously.

The best reply Sherlock could manage was "Mmm," as he pulled his phone from his dressing gown pocket and took a look at the morning news.

"The baby will be here before long -" scrub clank "- and look at this  
>place -" scrub scrub clank "- it's a disaster!"<p>

Sherlock looked up to see her, wearing a pair of marigolds, scrubbing the wall above the cooker. The wall.

"Going upstairs," he called behind him as he left as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. Neither babies nor manic tidying fell into his sphere of interest.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

It was well past midnight when Molly's frenzy started to ebb. She needed a shower desperately, but her flat finally looked acceptable. Not perfect, but at least it was now the sort of place you could bring your baby home to without the neighbors ringing social services.

Of course, her closest neighbor was Sherlock, so she was probably safe on that front. Still -

She woke up on the sofa again the next morning, not having showered or cleaned her teeth, and feeling like she had been beaten in the small of her back with a lead pipe. That would teach her to over-do it.

There were heaps of baby things that needed folding, and the present seemed as good a time as any. They were so tiny, these body suits and all-in-ones and the socks, God, the tiny socks - how could a real person be so small?

She had the unpleasant feeling that Sherlock was going to be very scarce once the baby came, that she was going to get exactly what she'd asked for. She'd wanted a baby of her own, so there was no use regretting it. She knew she'd be deluding herself if she ever imagined Sherlock was going to play happy families with her.

Sherlock liked her. He liked her more than he liked most people, she suspected. That didn't mean he wanted anything to do with the baby. She'd have to be stupid not to notice the way any mention of the baby made him glaze over or literally sent him running.

She was in love with him, stupidly in love with him. All told, she liked him only about twenty or thirty times more than he liked her. It was a fact of life. She might be a fool, but she was an honest fool. Six months, even three months ago, it would have made her cry to admit it. But now? Well, now she imagined there were worse things.

Being alone, for instance. She had been alone and she knew for a fact it was worse. Even if he took advantage of her, even if he flat-out did not care most of the time, there was something very comfortable about simply being with Sherlock.

Her back hurt again. No, not just hurt; it was spasming, now. She probably pulled something scrubbing the wainscotings. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited until it receded again.

She went into the baby's room, put away the folded clothes, put the mattress in the cot, and put the sheet covered in clouds and stars on the mattress. Nappies on the changing table. Mobile above the cot. It only took a few minutes, and the room looked ready. She put her hands on her belly. There was one person who mattered far more to her than Sherlock Holmes did or ever would, and if Sherlock couldn't appreciate that, it didn't bloody matter.

Oh, her back was starting again. A hot shower would help loosen the muscles. She let the warm water beat down on the small of her back, and it felt good, so good. It felt wonderful, being clean. It felt -

The pain hit again.

The pain -

Oh Jesus. How stupid could she be? How blissfully ignorant? Molly, you idiot, she thought, you are in labour.

She dried off quickly, cleaned her teeth. Another pain came, but she stood through it, breathed in and out very deliberately while hanging onto the edge of the basin, waited for it to end. She put her toothbrush and a few other odds and ends she'd forgotten in her overnight bag.

Another pain. This time she checked the clock. 10:23.

She had her bra and knickers on before the next one hit. 10:27.

She put on her wristwatch. grabbed her phone off the dresser.

ORDER ME A CAB?

-MOL

She would have typed out her name, but another pain came and it was all she could do to press send.

His reply came not in the form of a text, but in the thunder of footsteps on the stairs. He burst in like someone who habitually burst in.

"You're having it, then?" he said, utter surprise and focus in his face.

"Him. You said it was a boy," Molly answered, not quite able to speak properly for the pain.

"Why aren't you dressed? You can't ride to the hospital in your knickers," he huffed.

"Forgive me if the fact that I'm nine months pregnant and in labour is slowing me down," she said. Well, shouted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and proceeded to pull clothes from her cupboard. It took her a moment to realize he intended to dress her.

"Put your left foot here. This is a great day, Molly, and do you know why? Do you realize once this is over you need never wear any of these horrid maternity clothes again? What say we burn them ceremonially in the back garden?" he said, pulling up one of her three pair of khaki trousers.

"Mrs. Hudson wouldn't like - " she began.

"Arms up," he ordered without missing a beat. He tugged a black jumper over her head as another contraction made her grip his wrists hard enough to make him wince.

"Do you mind?"

"It hurts," she said.

"I believe that's par for the course. Need I remind you that this was your idea?"

"Oh, shut up!" she said. "It hurts and I'm not going to pretend it doesn't just to make you feel better."

He guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. "I assure you, Molly, I don't give a toss how you feel," he said, grabbing hold of her foot.

"Oh, as if I hadn't noticed." She pulled her socks out of Sherlock's hand and struggled to put them on herself.

Sherlock was either annoyed or worried; she couldn't tell which. Either way, he took back the socks, grabbed her foot again, slipped a sock over one foot, then the other, and rammed her shoes on. For an encore, he tied her laces.

"Thank you!" she snapped.

"You're welcome!" he snapped right back.

She paused for another terribly painful contraction, then struggled to her feet and out of the flat on her own power, thank you very much.

Thank goodness Sherlock remembered her overnight bag and her handbag.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock was preparing to hail a taxi when Molly turned and said the most extraordinary thing to him.

"I'm sorry for that. Back there. I'm not at my best right now. I ought to - I want to thank you - oh!" He could see the pain coming over her, her whole body tightening with it. "Um, thank you for everything, and let you know I can manage from here."

He took her arm to steady her. "Just when things are finally getting interesting?" he asked in disbelief. "I think not. Taxi!"

He helped her in. It was obvious to him that she was in no fit state to manage anything on her own at present. Molly wasn't given to exaggeration, so if she said she was in pain, he could be sure that she was in quite a bit of it. He wondered where it fell on the pain scale, and what sort of answer she'd give were he to ask her.

The next pain passed in grimacing silence.

"I take it the child has moved into the appropriate position for delivery?" he asked.

Molly shrugged. "I'm not sure. He switched position twice during my exam last week. He's pretty fidgety." She smirked. "I've no idea where he got that trait from."

Sherlock knew what she was getting at, but the very idea that anyone would inherit anything of his disposition made him uneasy. He looked at her carefully. Knowing what was to come, her abdomen looked wrong - too wide as opposed to long.

"What are you doing?" she asked

"Feeling for the child's position, obviously. Mike's never palpated your uterus?"

Molly closed her eyes. "Let me rephrase that, Sherlock: why are 'you' palpating my uterus? When did you do your obstetrics training?"

"He's still breach," he said, eyes now focused on his phone. "Shoulder presentation. I'm having Mike meet us in the operating theatre. I texted John from my flat."

In some way, it made Sherlock feel a bit better that there was a surgical solution. Better than the alternative. Better than squeezing a whole person out of her vagina. While he was perfectly aware this was the normal order of things, he was familiar with Molly's vagina and it hardly seemed possible, especially with the child presenting this way.

Drugs and a sharp scalpel seemed the more acceptable option.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sarah Sawyer-Watson was with a patient, discussing a tonsillectomy for a fifty year old woman. Not common, but in this case it seemed warranted, when there was a knock at the door.

"Sarah?" It was John, looking a bit sheepish. She knew right away Sherlock was involved.

"I'm with a patient, Dr Watson, can you wait five minutes?"

"Oh, sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Horvath, but no, actually I can't. I, ah, I just got a text - " John winced.

"Let me guess," she said.

"Yes. Himself," John said. "He says if I value our friendship at all, I will drop whatever I'm doing and come to Barts immediately."

Sarah frowned. "That's a bit melodramatic, even for Sherlock, isn't it?"

"Yeah," John said, looking concerned. "It really is. I - do you mind?"

"I'll cover for you," she said, "but you owe me one."

"Another one, you mean. How many does that make?"

"Oh, six or seven dozen. Who can keep track?" She smiled. "Be safe, don't let that idiot get you hurt again, keep him safe, if possible."

"Thank you," he said, grinning from ear to ear. He pecked her noisily on the cheek. "You are the best wife in the world," he said. "Mrs. Horvath, this is the best wife in the world."

"Yes, I am," Sarah agreed. "Good thing you're a passable husband." She turned her attention back to Mrs. Horvath's chart. "Have fun saving the world."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

The very last thing John Watson expected to see when he came to Barts was Sherlock sweeping through the entrance, a pregnant woman in his arms.

No. As it turned out, the very last thing John Watson expected to see when he came to Barts was Sherlock sweeping through the entrance with a pregnant woman John knew in his arms.

"Molly?" he asked.

"Hello, John," Molly said through gritted teeth. She had her arms looped around Sherlock's neck like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if Sherlock carried her about Barts like a baby every day of her life. "How's Sarah? How was your trip?" Then she hissed. Then she turned her head into Sherlock's collar and sobbed.

Good God. She was in labour, hard labour by the look of it, maybe even transition. His training kicked in. "Sarah's fine, the trip was great," he answered. "So when did your labour start?"

Sherlock gave him a look that was corrosive enough to eat through a chair. "Why are you wasting time on this when you should be getting scrubbed?"

"Excuse me? What? Scrubbed?"

"Obviously. Molly's in labour. The child is breach, shoulder presentation by all indications. A Caesarean section is most likely at this point. Now stop dawdling," Sherlock said.

John blinked at him. "Sherlock, I don't have privileges here. Molly, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I can't, it's not - "

"You're observing Mike Stamford in theatre 7B. And by observing, I mean delivering this child. So for God's sake, go wash your bloody hands!"

Sherlock was serious. Dead serious. Molly had her face pressed into Sherlock's chest and was muttering.

Not quite the sort of mystery John had been expecting, but clearly a mystery. Not one he was going to solve by standing around the lobby, either.

"All right, fine, I'll just go -" He jerked his thumb toward the lifts.

"Yes, do that," Sherlock ordered.

As John headed toward the lift that led to the theatres, he could hear Sherlock shouting, "No, she doesn't need to fill out any forms. What she needs is a Caesarean section. How do I know? I know because I palpated her uterus!"

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

For months, Molly thought the most beautiful words she could ever imagine coming out of Sherlock's mouth were 'I Love You'.

Oh, how wrong she'd been. What an idiot.

The sweetest words he could have ever said, did say, eclipsing any stupid love shite were these:

"Mike, I want an anesthesiologist in here administering an epidural in the next sixty seconds or I am going to the dispensary and getting the morphine myself."

Molly couldn't help herself. She grabbed his hand. "You are brilliant," she said. "I mean it, Sherlock. Brilliant."

Sherlock squeezed her hand tight, but instead of answering, he turned to the confused looking woman who had just come through the doors. "About time you got here. This woman needs an epidural, now!"

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

John Watson had really ever only seen Sherlock keyed up about crime, criminals, and the stupidity of everyone who worked with, by, or at, New Scotland Yard. So this? This was new.

Molly's belly had barely been swabbed with povodine when Sherlock started in.

"You'll want to begin with Pfanstiel's incision," Sherlock said, pulling the mask over his chin.

"Yes," Mike Stamford agreed.

Sherlock craned his neck to watch the scalpel drag through Molly's abdomen. He was standing much closer than he should be, in John's opinion. Sherlock was used to Lestrade, who let him get away with anything as long as he delivered in the end. An operating theatre was not a crime scene, though, and Mike was a patient bloke, but even he had limits.

"Next, you'll need to separate the subcutaneous tissue manually."

"Well aware, Sherlock," Mike said. "Unlike you, this is not my first C-section."

"John has smaller hands," Sherlock noted. "Perhaps you should have him do this bit."

"I've got it, Sherlock," Mike said, huffing slightly.

"Sherlock, mate, calm down," John said. "Trust me, Mike knows what he's doing."

"Then why is it taking you so bloody long?" Sherlock said. "You should be separating the rectus abdominus muscle by now."

"There, separating it, see?" Mike said. "Happy now?"

"Delirious," Sherlock answered dryly. "Next you need to hold the urachus and incise it along with the visceral peritoneum."

"We know!" John and Mike said in chorus.

"The bladder needs to be pushed down with a retractor to bring the lower uterine segment into - " he insisted, but was interrupted by a furious voice from the operating table.

"Sherlock Holmes! There are four people in this room who finished medical school, and you're not one of them! Be quiet and let these people do their work!"

"Bless you, Molly," Mike muttered.

"Four of whom," Sherlock said quietly, under his mask.

"Oh, get stuffed," Molly replied.

John had to suppress a laugh. He only wished he could see Sherlock's face behind the mask.

The next thirty seconds were mercifully silent. Then a head, a tiny pale head covered with fine black hair emerged from the incision. John had no idea why his heart was beating so hard. This had to be a dream.

Suction, followed by a cry, both loud and lusty, and everything you wanted to hear from a baby.

"Heads up, John," said Mike lifting the baby the rest of the way out of Molly's body and into John's arms. "Good God, look at the size of him. What do you make it? 9 pounds or so?"

A boy. A solid, healthy boy, much too big to have fit through Molly Hooper's hips no matter the presentation, wriggled in John's arms, his umbilical cord dangling. The child was all arms and legs and big lolling head. He'd stopped crying almost immediately and was looking round, eyes already focused. John had never seen that in a newborn before. It was a little unnerving, and answered a few questions he hadn't had time to ask.

"Do you want to cut the cord, Sherlock?" Mike asked cheerfully.

"Me? I didn't go to medical school," Sherlock said. John thought Sherlock had been aiming for biting there, but in truth, all Sherlock's attention was on that baby.

Mike cut the baby free with a laugh.

"Let me see, John," Molly called. "Oh, look at his tiny fingers!"

People always said that, John had discovered. There seemed to be something inherently magical about the smallness of babies, about their tiny hands and tiny feet. On some level, babies were beyond belief.

"The nurse has to take him, Molly," Mike said.

"Take him where?" Sherlock demanded.

"To weigh him and clean him, blood tests, all the usual newborn things," John explained. "Let the nurse take him, and you can follow, okay?"

Sherlock looked lost, all of a sudden. Stunned. Under the circumstances, it seemed very human of him. Sherlock looked like any other bloke from Hampton to Hyderabad staring into the face of his new-born child. John hadn't delivered as many babies as someone like Mike, but every time he had, the father had worn that expression.

Never mind that this whole thing beggared, some might say buggered, belief. Sherlock Holmes was the father of a child. What's more, John was ninety-nine percent certain Sherlock was the father of this specific child. The question was, 'why?' And 'how?' And 'why' thrown in a few times more for good measure.

Sherlock seemed to snap out of it. He turned his pale glare on John. "Do not leave Molly's side," he said with all the authority of the Sherlock Holmes John knew and wanted to strangle on alternating Wednesdays.

"No worries," John said. "Mike's probably going to make me close, anyway."

"Too right, Johnny boy!" Mike answered with a grin.

"Don't worry, Sherlock," Molly called behind him. "Go with the baby."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

When the smoke cleared, John managed to cajole two cups of bloody awful tea from the vending machine. He put three sugars in Sherlock's because he knew Sherlock was going to need it.

Sherlock stood with his back to the corridor wall, and appeared to be counting the ceiling tiles.

"Tea?" John asked as he found his own patch of wall to lean against.

Sherlock extended his hand for the cup without looking. "Thank you." He appeared slightly paler than usual, which, to John's mind, was quite the trick.

"Mother and child are resting comfortably," John said. "What about the father?"

Sherlock took a sip. "He's standing in a hospital corridor with you drinking overly sweetened, tepid dishwater."

"Yeah, I worked that bit out," John said. He wondered if he should offer congratulations. Sherlock didn't look like he was celebrating anything, so he decided not to.

Sherlock took another sip from his cup and grimaced. "Actually, I believe tepid dishwater would be preferable. Where did you get this, a puddle?"

"Vending machine." John took a sip himself. God, it really was awful.

They were silent a moment. When Sherlock didn't say anything, John took the lead. "Sarah mentioned months back that Molly wanted a baby and was considering A.I. I am frankly amazed she worked up the nerve to ask you."

Sherlock's brows rose. "She didn't."

"Excuse me?" John frowned.

"I volunteered."

He couldn't have heard that right. "You what?"

"The quality of anonymous donors in this country is appalling, John. Mycroft really should do something about it."

"Wait, how the hell did you make it through the donor screening?" John asked. "Oh, well, yes. Lied through your teeth, obviously."

"Didn't have to." Sherlock took another sip. "God, this is really horrid."

"What do you mean, you -"

Sherlock looked straight ahead, eyes locked on the pale green wall opposite. "No clinic, ergo, no screening. Do keep up."

John rubbed his forehead. "What? She had someone else perform -? Or did you-?" John shook his head. "No, what am I saying? You don't do girls."

"Don't I?"

John's head turned toward Sherlock so fast the joints in his neck snapped like gunshots. "You don't," he said. "You don't do anyone."

"Not an entirely accurate assessment on your part," Sherlock said, peeking at him out of the corner of his eye.

"You're the one who - you said it yourself!" John replied. "You said girlfriends weren't your area, those were your exact words."

"They aren't."

"So this was just a favour? A one-off?"

Sherlock started counting the floor tiles. "Not exactly," he murmured softly.

John spoke fairly fluent Sherlock-ese; 'not exactly' meant there was a good chance they were a regular - something.

This was madness. Black was white. Up was down. And America was going to win the World Cup - that sort of madness. If anyone had asked John what Sherlock Holmes would definitely not be saying today, or any other day, ever, for that matter, this would have been it. The idea, the very notion, that Sherlock - his best mate in the world, yeah, but a complete wanker most of the time - and Molly Hooper, - nice, sweet, normal, unassuming, wouldn't-hurt-a-fly, afraid-of-her-own-bloody-shadow Molly Hooper - were, were a regular - something, and had, had, had, become parents -

It boggled the mind. John's mind, anyway.

The words kept repeating in his head: Sherlock is the father of Molly Hooper's child, Sherlock is the father of Molly Hooper's child, Sherlock is the father - but that didn't make it any more believable. The words just sort of floated there, like oil on top of water, not sinking in or making any sense.

"So, uh, when did this start? " he asked.

"The child appears to be full term," Sherlock said, like that answered it all John's questions.

Which, well, right, maybe it did. "So about forty weeks ago, then? About 10 months?" John looked at Sherlock's profile. "About as long as I've been married, yeah?"

"Not everything is about you, John," Sherlock said, his lip curled. "If I hadn't done something. she would have gone. Got herself inseminated by some stranger and left for the hinterlands. I had to act."

"Why?" John still couldn't quite grasp it. "Why you? You never gave a damn about Molly, and don't try to tell me you did. She was just someone who worked at Barts, someone who you could get to - oh."

Sherlock actually flinched.

"Oh my God," John said, the full horror of the situation dawning on him. "You bastard. You complete fucking bastard. Hasn't Molly been through enough? She's lost her father, and that business with Moriarty. She has no one -"

"She has a child," Sherlock said. "She wanted a child, and now she has one. I saw to it. I made that happen."

John could almost see the shadow of Sherlock's reasoning, and he didn't like it. "Are you trying to make up for what happened with Moriarty? Because if you are this is not -"

"Absolutely not!" Sherlock snarled. "That was not my fault."

Which, John knew, meant Sherlock blamed himself completely. "Keep your voice down, you're in hospital."

Sherlock inhaled tensely and exhaled just as anxiously. "Since you've been -" he said slowly, then paused.

"Married?" John supplied.

"I was going to say 'absent' actually. Since you've been absent, Molly makes me sandwiches," he said as if revealing something quite intimate. Perhaps he was, for Sherlock.

John realized that, at that moment, he wanted to hit his best friend very much and very hard. He knew it was wrong, so he restrained himself, but the urge was there. "God, she's my replacement. Only better, because she lets you get away with anything. And I do mean anything. Christ." John shook his head. "Do you care for her at all?"

Sherlock shot him a withering look. He did not, however, answer the question.

"Sherlock -" John said, feeling his hands clench against his will.

"Molly likes me, John. She doesn't barely tolerate me or find me useful or wonder what I can do for her," he said, lowering his chin to look straight at John for an unnerving moment. "She likes me. She's one of two."

John thought, at that moment, Sherlock had perhaps overestimated the number.

"That day, after I got back, and I came to pick up my post, you were blocking the door, yeah? And I knew something was up, but -" he scratched the back of his neck. "So you've moved her into my old room?"

"Are you mad? A woman and child in my flat? With me? In my flat?"

"You're repeating yourself," John said with a grin.

"So I am." Sherlock's lips quirked. "Mrs. Hudson used the insurance money from the fake gas explosion to have the basement renovated. She's living down there."

John swallowed the last of his awful tea. His head was swimming, trying to work out what the hell Sherlock was doing. And to think his greatest fear had been that Sherlock had an entire rotting corpse in his flat. Or a cat. Perhaps two cats. This was so much harder to imagine.

"Nice renovation, is it?" he asked, because the conversation wasn't quite bizarre enough for his tastes yet.

Sherlock shrugged. "She seems to like it. You should've seen the place she was in before."

"As bad as that?"

"A bed-sit," Sherlock said, as though it might be contagious.

All John Watson could do was try not to stare.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sarah knew how it went when Sherlock was involved; John would send a series of texts letting her know he was okay, and eventually he would come home in the wee hours of the morning, probably a bit scuffed up, and as randy and excited at a school boy. Which was fine. It kept him fit and happy and out of her hair, and made her appreciate their time together even more.

She didn't expect to see him back at the surgery before the end of the day, popping his head into her office.

"Case solved already?" she asked, looking up from her stack of charts. "That was quick. Everyone okay?"

John closed the door and sat in the chair in front of the desk. "There was no case," John said with a funny shake of his head. She couldn't tell if he was amused or confused or disturbed. "Not exactly a case, anyway."

"Oh. But Sherlock - " she started.

"Yeah. He wanted me at Barts to deliver a baby."

Sarah's head shot up. "What?"

John scrunched up his face as if he didn't quite believe what he was saying. "His baby, in fact. Yeah, it sounds as mad when I say it out load as it does in my head."

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? Tall bloke, bit dramatic? Best man at our wedding? Him?" Sarah shook her head. "Yes, you're right, it does sound mad. Who's the lucky - ?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, about that. It gets weirder, if possible; the mother is Molly Hooper."

"What? Oh, right, right! He was the donor, then," Sarah said trying to piece the information into a scenario that made sense. "I knew she was looking into A.I. That's - unexpectedly nice of him."

John, shook his head. "Not the donor, exactly. And I'm not sure how nice. Apparently, they've been, ah, seeing each other, I guess, since we went to Africa. He's even moved her into the downstairs flat at 221B."

Sarah blinked. She had nothing to say to that. She knew she ought to say something, but she couldn't think of anything, anything at all.

"It's a boy, by the way," John said exhaling slowly, "named Edmund."

"And you delivered him? How?"

John shrugged. "Mike delivered him by C-section. I 'observed,' which means Mike made me close, the tosser."

"Mother and baby well?"

John nodded. "Apgar 10 out of 10, weight 4.6 kg, 55 cm long, really tall, like his dad." He grinned. "Yeah, still sounds mad."

"My God, that's practically a two month old," Sarah said. "And Molly's so tiny. That poor woman. I hope you made certain she had good drugs."

"She did. Connie Hartley - you know her, yeah? - she did the epidural. I think she knows Molly through the hospital and Sherlock by reputation and made sure everyone was well fortified, pharmaceutically. On top of everything, else, the baby was breach, so it had to be quick. It was a bit of a nightmare."

"Oh?"

John shook his head. "Not the operation itself. That was fairly cut and dried, but Sherlock stood there shouting directions until Molly reminded him there were four people in that room who had finished medical school and Sherlock was not one of them. It actually shut him up, which was kind of amazing. I never would have pictured it in a million years. I'm still not sure I believe it." He laughed. "If anyone had ever tried to convince me Sherlock would have a child before I would -" he shook his head again. "No, never."

"So," Sarah said, "any idea what she was thinking?"

John snorted. "Not a clue."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock stood outside the door to Molly's private room. He was perfectly aware Mycroft was in there, waiting for him. With flowers, of course.

He braced himself and stepped through the door.

"Hello, little brother," Mycroft said quietly.

"Mycroft," he acknowledged.

Sherlock cast his eyes about the room, taking in an array of flowers, balloons and gifts, wondering vaguely who had sent them. Molly's baby was in a little clear plastic box, which he supposed was meant to be some sort of cot. Molly slept like a stone, exhausted and drugged to the gills. In the hospital bed, she seemed small and weak, worn paper thin.

Her doing, all of this, not his. If her skin was a colour more suited to a lampshade and the delicate tissue around her eyes looked over-ripe and bruised, he was not to blame. If it had been up to him he would have used a condom. Every. Bloody. Time.

Well, what was done was done. He'd complied with her wishes, done as she'd asked. She had her baby. She'd have no further use for him, now.

"You have it, now what are you going to do with it?" Mycroft asked.

"With what?" Sherlock asked.

"Fatherhood, of course." Mycroft smiled his tight-lipped little smile. "Congratulations, by the way. Which, I'm sure you've realized by now, is why I am here."

"Mm?" Sherlock answered distractedly.

"Are you ready to reconsider my standing offer?" Mycroft asked. "You've real responsibilities now, and you know as well as I that your abilities are wasted on these petty problems. Are you done playing detective?"

"Playing? I am not-"

Sherlock would have explained, in detail, the merits of his avocation, as opposed to that of his elder brother, if the door hadn't opened so quietly it was almost, but not quite, silent. There stood a person Sherlock hadn't seen in close to twenty years, and had, in truth, never planned to see again. The person he hated most in the world.

The Old Man.

"You look like you could use a fag, son," were the first words his father said to him in nineteen years.

And there they were, how utterly predictable, the Gauloises Bleu, extended. He was about to sneer and decline when The Old Man pulled them back with a smirk.

"Oh, but you've given it up, haven't you?" The Old Man moved his thumb imperceptibly to extend a nicotine patch hidden behind the cigarette pack. "Perhaps you'd prefer one of these instead. You forgot yours this morning when you were rushing to get my grandson born."

"No, thank you," Sherlock said, despite that fact a patch would have leveled him out considerably. He supposed it was part of the price of reproduction: all the undesirables coming out of the woodwork. He hoped Molly appreciated what he was suffering on her account.

The Old Man shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Mycroft broke in. "Father, what are you doing here?"

The Old Man looked smug. "My first and likely only grandson is born, and you ask why I've come."

"And just how did you find out about this - blessed event," Mycroft asked, inspecting his nails. "Who told you?"

"You don't expect me to answer, so why ask?" The Old Man replied, keeping his voice low. He walked over to the bed and inspected Molly's sleeping form, which Sherlock did not particularly like. In fact, he discovered right there and then that he would have be positively giddy had The Old Man never clapped eyes on either Molly or her child.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, but he could tell at a glance that Mycroft hadn't been expecting their father to appear any more than Sherlock had. Mycroft got to live another day.

He was glad Molly was drugged. Had she been awake, she would have reacted to The Old Man the way every other creature on the planet seemed to: women wanted The Old Man, men wanted to be him, dogs wanted to roll over and bare their bellies the moment he walked into a room. With Molly being painfully, childishly, predisposed to men, The Old Man wouldn't have even had to make an effort. Even considering it made Sherlock's skin crawl.

He always left Sherlock feeling declasse, as though he was trying much too hard, as though he was always speaking too loudly, even when he consciously whispered so softly that anyone in the room had to strain to hear him. Sherlock was an amateur. A gauche boy. An embarrassment.

He was a clumsy, awkward, ugly child.

His chin was weak.

His face, entirely too narrow.

His eyes, too beady.

His shoulders were thin.

He had a face only a mother ferret could love.

No wonder people hated Sherlock at first sight.

Everyone loved The Old Man, though. Even when he was betraying them, God, even when they knew he was betraying them. And The Old Man was always betraying someone: it was his 'thing', what he did. Sherlock might be able to pretend, play out the part of the bumbling neighbor or the grieving school chum convincingly for a quarter of an hour, but The Old Man could do it for months on end, years even. And all he did was play-act. He didn't have an honest bone in his body. It was possible he had no core self at all; whatever the moment called for, he became.

And everyone loved him for it.

Everyone but Sherlock.

Well, everyone but Sherlock and Mummy.

And possibly Mycroft. Sherlock wasn't entirely convinced his brother's hate was quite as pure as it ought to be, though.

"Why did you say you were here, again?" Sherlock asked. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets because he suddenly had no idea what to do with them.

"I didn't," The Old Man said brightly. "So this is the girl from over the chippy, is it?"

"This is, in fact, Dr. Mary Magdalen Hooper," Sherlock said, willing his blood not to ignite. "She's a noted published pathologist at one of the top hospitals in the country."

The Old Man smiled indulgently. "I'm not faulting her, son. We lot could do with an infusion of fresh blood. Hybrid vigour, and all that," he said, and Sherlock was shocked to see him ever so lightly touch the little gold cross Molly wore at her throat. "Speaking of vigour, I'm willing to wager this one's a wildcat behind closed doors."

Oh, there it was; the leer. It went with the film star good looks and the charisma and the fucking Gauloises Bleu. Mummy had only been a few years out of a convent school herself when The Old Man married her. Sherlock felt violently ill at the implication but kept his face blank.

Sherlock didn't mean to but his mouth opened. "She's hardly Mummy."

The Old Man laughed softly. "Good Christ, of course she isn't. You're much smarter than I was, son. With a background like hers, a girl as plain as that, she's bound to have more gratitude in her little finger than your mother has in her entire body. She must be very, very eager to please."

Sherlock hadn't known it was possible to want to kill his father more with each passing second. He looked at Mycroft, desperately wanting him to do something, anything. But Mycroft was sitting with his eyes closed, gripping the arms of his chair, pretending to be elsewhere, planning a nice little coup d'etat, perhaps.

Sherlock's chest went cold as The Old Man made his way to the plastic baby box and picked up Molly's infant son. "Oh, he's a lovely lad, isn't he?"

Sherlock counted from one hundred backward to one in Numic, willing his father to put the child back in its cot. And then to disappear forever.

"So, when should we expect you?" The Old Man asked, inspecting the sleeping child. "You don't need much training, per se, but there should be a brief adjustment period."

"Don't be ridiculous, Father," Mycroft said, suddenly returned to the land of the living. "He's not going to work with you. Sherlock will be joining me."

"Be realistic, Mycroft," The Old Man said, now jostling the infant in a way that made Sherlock want to snatch the child away and just run. "Your brother would be bored to tears working with you, scheming your little schemes, day in day out, locked in an underground bunker, never seeing the light of day. Whatever he likes to think, there's too much of The Old Man in him. He needs the zest of adventure to be truly happy."

Since when had Sherlock's happiness ever crossed The Old Man's mind? If it did, he'd put that bloody baby down.

"I'm not interested in either offer. I'm perfectly -" Sherlock was going to explain in detail, while not looking at either his father or - Molly's son - that he needed neither his brother nor his father breathing down his neck in exchange for a pay packet, but The Old Man had never liked allowing him the luxury of finishing a sentence on his own.

"Oh, come off it, boy. I've kept an eye on your exploits. The Cairo affair was quite impressive, yes, and then that little adventure in Texas, interesting as well. First rate work, all the way round. Not exactly as I would have gone about things, but good job, none the less. But, son, you were born for Box 850 and," here he sighed, "it's not as though you're good for much else."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I am a consulting detec-" he began.

"Sherlock, please," Mycroft broke in. "That's not even a real 'job'. You made it up yourself!"

"Time to stop playing at coppers, son," The Old Man said, as though Sherlock were six years old.

"Haven't you exhausted the nostalgie de la boue yet?" Mycroft asked.

Enough was enough. Too much, in fact. "On second thought, I've changed my mind." Sherlock strode over to The Old Man, fished the Gauloises Bleu out of his breast pocket, taking the entire pack as well as the silver lighter he'd carried ever since Sherlock could remember. It wasn't as though The Old Man could do anything to stop him with his hands full with Molly Hooper's baby, after all.

Sherlock walked out of the room. Then out of Barts. Then all the way back to Baker Street, smoking The Old Man's vile cigarettes as he went.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly woke up with her baby, Eddie, in a room full of flowers and gifts, and Sherlock nowhere in evidence.

Oh, the baby was lovely and perfect, and she wished Sherlock was there to see him.

She texted to let him know when she was being released from hospital. There was no reply.

Molly Hooper was heartbroken and relieved, both at once.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

John Watson had been disappointed in Sherlock Holmes before, plenty of times. So he shouldn't have been surprised when Sherlock was nowhere to be found soon after the delivery. And he shouldn't have been surprised to find Sherlock at home, in his flat, in his dressing gown, lounging on the sofa, when John helped Molly and her new baby home from hospital.

It was classic Sherlock Holmes, really, to take the easy way out, at least as far as dealing with people was concerned.

It was classic John Watson, really, not to let him get away with it. And if Sherlock Holmes didn't like it, he was bloody well going to have to lump it.

"Where've you been?" John asked, trying to keep his voice low.

"Here," Sherlock said, waving his hands, "obviously."

John didn't want to start off shouting; it would leave him no room to escalate. "And you think that's good enough, do you?"

"For?"

John took a deep breath. "Molly's just had abdominal surgery. She needs help. It'll be at least a week before she can manage on her own."

John decided Sherlock must have a death-wish, because he shrugged and said, "So?"

"So, Sherlock, this is your responsibility."

Sherlock reached for a magazine. "It's not," he said. "It's really not."

John yanked the magazine out of his hand and dropped it on the floor. "Molly is willing to let you do as you please, clearly, but I'm not. This is yours." He gestured to the baby in the carrier in his hand. "Deal with it."

"That wasn't the agreement, John," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "I was told, I have been told repeatedly, in no uncertain terms, in fact, that my duties, my rights and responsibilities, ended at conception. That," he pointed to the baby, "is not my problem."

John blinked at him. What the hell was Sherlock on about? "Not your problem? So, so let me get this straight. You were there in the theatre, shouting orders, ready to reach round Mike and cut Molly open yourself because this is not your problem? Because you don't care? Seriously?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Fatherhood is hardly my area of expertise."

"It's not anybody's bloody area of expertise, Sherlock! You'll just have to do what everyone else does."

"Which is?"

"Deal." With that, John gently hauled the baby from the carrier and set him on Sherlock's chest.

"What? John, what are you -?"

"Don't forget to support his head," John said, grabbing Sherlock's hand and resting it on the baby's back. "Molly's going to be out for hours, and unlike you, a baby needs to eat every day, several times a day, in fact. You'll know he's hungry because he'll cry. Molly's breastfeeding, so you'll need to take him downstairs for that. She won't be able to pick him up or carry him for at least a week. Good luck."

John was about to make his exit when Sherlock said, "One question."

"Yes?" John said over his shoulder.

"His name?" Sherlock asked.

That was a shocker. Jesus Christ, Sherlock Holmes didn't know his own son's name. "Edmund," John said, trying and failing to keep the disgust out of his voice. "Edmund Vernet Hooper."

"Vernet?" Sherlock asked. "Really?"

"That's your mother's maiden name, isn't it, and your middle name? She named him for you, Sherlock," John said. "See if you can earn the honour, yeah?"

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock lay there with the small warm lump on his chest. He looked down at it, and miraculously, it looked back at him. Its eyes were dark like Molly's, but otherwise, it was very much like looking at a fetal form of himself. Its tiny hand was pressed against Sherlock's chest, and it was strange, Sherlock realized, so strange, to see a hand and know, to absolutely know, the shape it would grow into, each minute digit having been programmed by his own DNA to end in just such a fingertip.

Carefully, so carefully, he lifted the baby and swung his own legs around, so he was sitting up, cradling the baby in his arms, supporting the head as John had ordered. With his free hand, he pulled off one little sock. Wasn't that curious - just like his.

The baby pressed its body against Sherlock's chest, like it was trying to burrow into him. Cuddling, like Molly. He held it close and settled back on the sofa. It was studying him.

Not it, he. He was studying him. His son was studying him.

Yes, that was it. His son was studying him.

He could see the intelligence behind the eyes. Inside the tiny, fragile braincase, a developing intellect was making sense of the world at its most basic level, without a single preconceived notion, without a single false idea.

And it was his. Edmund - Edmund belonged to him.

"And Molly," he said aloud. "Can't leave your Mummy out, can we?"

Edmund turned to the sound of his voice. Sherlock nearly forgot to breathe.

Oh, Molly Hooper had made a clever, clever little _Homo sapiens sapiens._ And he would make certain it stayed that way.

"Hello, Edmund," Sherlock said, tracing the shape of the sutures in his skull with a fingertip. "Hello."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly woke up in agony. She tried to sit up and the incision burned and, oh God, her breasts were like huge, hot rocks strapped to her chest. Ooowwwww!

It took everything she had to get out of bed. It hurt and she felt weak and oh God, she needed to get to the baby's room and get him from his cot. She hoped she could manage.

Every step she took was agony, and she felt like she was going to cry if she didn't do something about the pressure on her chest.

Eddie wasn't in his cot. He wasn't anywhere in the flat, and by now, he had to be hungry.

Oh God, no. John had taken him upstairs.

She didn't know if the idea of facing Sherlock or the stairs was more horrifying.

She took three deep breaths, and slowly, very, very slowly, began climbing, cursing John all the way. Some people needed to learn when to mind their own damned business. Some people needed to learn when to leave bad enough alone. Some people who shall remain nameless. John Watson. And some people should stop being so nice. Molly Hooper. Some people should stop being such gits. Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Some people should just leave Molly alone with her baby like she wanted in the first place.

She had to stop and rest halfway up until the burning in her belly stopped, and she could force herself, truly force herself, to climb another stair.

Step by painful step, she made her way to Sherlock's flat, hating both he and John Watson more with every tread.

Him. Hating him. Wonderful. Now he was in her head, correcting her bloody grammar.

Oh, sweet Jesus, the pain. All she wanted was her baby in her flat, without some high-handed genius to reject her. She refused to cry, but oh, how it hurt, how every bloody thing hurt.

Filled with agony and rage, she threw open his door, only to find Sherlock asleep on the sofa, with Edmund on his chest.

And he was smiling. Sherlock was smiling. He looked like a bleeding angel. She had never hated him more.

She cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she said loudly, "can I have my baby, please?"

Sherlock opened one eye, yawned, stretched one arm, still smiling. "You look like hell," he said. "And you aren't supposed to be up and about."

"The baby, please?" she said. She felt feverish and dizzy, and honestly, she didn't know how she was still standing.

Sherlock frowned. "Your breasts, Molly, they're all -" He made what would normally be a rude gesture.

"Huge?" Molly said.

"I was going to say 'bizarre.' Are you all right?" He pulled his legs up, clearing a spot for her. "Sit down before you fall down."

She didn't want to sit. She wanted to take her baby and go. The fact that she couldn't imagine how she was going to make it down the stairs holding Eddie and her incision at the same time was immaterial. "My milk came in while I was asleep, I think," she said.

"It's not automatic?" he asked, curious. "It doesn't come as soon as the baby comes? Molly, sit."

Feeling like a traitor, like a stupid, stupid traitor, Molly sat. "No," she said, crossing her arms to cover her breasts, which hurt, oh God, it hurt. "I need to feed him. It's - I need to feed him." She was not going to sob, she was absolutely not going to sob.

In a blink, it seemed like a blink, Sherlock was there, baby still asleep in the crook of his arm, helping her up again, and that hurt too. "Come along," he said.

"Just take me to my flat. Please."

"My bed is closer," he said, "and if you need something, I'll be right here." Carefully, gingerly, he laid her down in his rumpled bed. "Molly, you should have called or texted. I would have brought him down to you."

Oh God, she thought. Why hadn't she? Because she was too busy being sore and angry and falling apart like an idiot, that's why. Poor Edmund, to have such a stupid, useless mother, and not even 3 days old. He was doomed.

"Edmund," Sherlock said gently, stroking the side of the baby's face. "Edmund," he repeated. The baby opened his eyes and immediately began to root against Sherlock's hand, which Sherlock clearly found delightful. "Mummy has something for you. Be gentle with her, she's had a very difficult week."

And then, so carefully, he laid the baby beside her, tried to lift her shirt -

"Stop!" she said. "What are you doing? I can do that."

"Are you certain? Because it appears to me you -" he said.

"I can unlatch my own bra, thank you." Good thing it closed in the front or she would have been a liar. Mission accomplished, she pushed her nipple into the baby's mouth. He latched on hard. It was both a relief and a torture. Milk started to flow freely from the other side as well.

Still, with each noisy suck, her left breast felt better. She could literally hear each swallow. The trouble was as her left breast felt better and better, she noticed how hot and hard and uncomfortable the right one was, despite its leaking. In less than a minute, her shirt was soaked.

Sherlock had disappeared. Figured. Just when she wanted him to do - do - well, something, he vanished. Useless bloody -

"Here," he said. He handed her a towel and a wet flannel. "I've brought you a clean shirt, too. Maybe if you put the towel here -"

She had so misjudged him. She took it all back; Sherlock Holmes was a prince. He did all he could to stem the flow of milk that seemed to be going everywhere.

She ran two fingers through Eddie's hair until it stood on end. What a boy. She stroked his cheek. So soft. He blinked at her, squinted, forced his eyes open again. Oh, she knew how that felt. He blinked twice more, sucked even harder. Oh, Eddie. If it wouldn't require moving her abdominal muscles, she'd bend to kiss him. She kissed her fingers and touched his forehead, instead. Eddie opened his eyes and remembered that he was supposed to be eating.

It only lasted a few more minutes, and then Eddie was asleep and drooling. On a positive note, she felt almost comfortable on one side; on a negative note, she did still have that other breast.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, fiddling with his phone.

"Do you want me to take him away fro -"

"No!" Molly scowled, and pulled the baby closer.

Sherlock scowled back. "Fine," he said indignantly. "Do you want me to bring in the, the thing with, with the handles? The basket thing?" he asked, clearly frustrated by his lack of vocabulary.

"The carry cot? Maybe in a bit. He's sleeping so well I don't want to move him." She made the mistake of moving herself, somehow amplifying the pain in her right breast at least a dozen fold.

"Are you all right?"

"No," she answered honestly. "I'm not. I'm really not."

"Right," he said, still looking at his phone. "I'm going to try something,"

He set his phone down on the mattress, leaned over and -

"Owww," Molly squeaked as Sherlock attempted to squeeze her overfull breast into yet another towel "I'm not a cow, Sherlock," she said between gritted teeth.

Eddie made a face in his sleep that looked exactly like disgruntled Sherlock.

"Just trying to help," he said, picking up his phone again. Whatever the screen said it made him squint. "There is an alternate recommendation."

"Oh?"

Sherlock didn't elaborate. Instead, he looked around the room, almost as if making absolutely certain there was no one else but the three of them.

"Sherlock?"

He looked directly at her for a moment and then he looked away, tracing the curve of her hot breast with one finger. He barely touched her and yet it hurt. Molly winced. Sherlock chewed the corner of his mouth the way he did when he was uncomfortable.

In the pit of her stomach, Molly knew what Sherlock was planning. From a practical standpoint it was right, he was right, and it was obvious. But it seemed so, God, so wrong, so dirty. Absolutely, truly filthy.

But she was in so much pain she couldn't find the energy to care.

He dropped the damp towels to the floor. She expected him to stretch out on the bed beside her, but no. Instead, he leaned awkwardly over her, meeting her eyes for just a moment as he took her nipple into his mouth.

His eyes snapped shut almost immediately.

The pain was worse, so terrible, that she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. But then it eased slightly, then more, then there was relief, but it was terrible too, and she reflexively grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt. His eyes shot wide again as he sucked and swallowed. He stroked her cheek with the back of a single finger.

Without thought, Molly moved her hand from his back to his hair. It felt so good to have the pressure and the heat and the discomfort wash out like a tide. She held Edmund to her with one arm and Sherlock with the other.

Sherlock's eyes darted to hers again only for a moment. He looked away, then back at her, then away, before finally settling on her. There was a question there.

"Thank you," she whispered so quietly she could barely hear herself.

Sherlock's eyes slipped shut, and he nodded against her. She could feel the tension pour out of him. He touched her cheek again.

Finally, her breast felt nearly normal again, or as normal, she considered, as it would for several months to come. He could have stopped at any time after that, should stop, but it seemed such an awkward thing to say. Molly was too tired to sort out what the proper thing was, so drifted off with her fingers in his hair, a Holmes on either side of her.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly wasn't answering her phone. Neither was Sherlock. Molly had been quite heavily medicated and might still be sleeping. But Sherlock? Not answering his phone? Why were they back to that?

John had to wonder if he had done something incredibly reckless leaving the baby with Sherlock. Not that Sherlock would intentionally harm a baby, any baby. But what if he did something stupid? Sherlock could be very stupid.

John had worked himself up pretty well by the time he unlocked Sherlock's door with another key he'd 'forgot' to return to Mrs. Hudson when he'd moved out. Ordinarily, he'd call out, but there was an infant on the scene now, and shouting of any sort was out of the question. Or, rather, Eddie was probably in for enough shouting without John contributing.

He'd left Sherlock and Eddie in the sitting room, but it was empty.  
>Maybe -<p>

He eased open Sherlock's bedroom door very carefully and breathed a sigh of relief. There, in Sherlock's bed. Molly in the middle, baby on one side, Sherlock on the other, Sherlock with his arm wrapped around her waist. It looked like someone had posed the three of them.

He'd never believe it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. He still wasn't sure he did.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Everything still hurt when Molly woke up, but to a lesser degree. It was less 'shoot-me-now' and more 'sweet-Jesus-what-did-I-do-to-deserve-  
>this?'" In other words, bearable.<p>

She would have happily slept for six months if it hadn't been for the music flooding into the room. She sat up and nearly cried. She looked at Eddie, asleep on the bed, red rosebud mouth open. His eyelids fluttered, and he made a little piggy noise in his sleep and it was breathtaking. Amazing.

She struggled out of the bed. She could just take Eddie and go back to her own flat, but the trip down the stairs sounded about as appealing as rappelling down Everest at the moment. She had to ask Sherlock to quiet down before he woke the baby. No, she had to tell him.

She hobbled her way across the flat to Sherlock's sitting room. And there he was, in chair across from the fire, violin in hand.

It was Sherlock playing, and not the sort of thing he played when he was working. This was not discordant or angry or painful. This didn't rip her heart out of her chest with sorrow, or shred her eardrums. It was lively and yet, somehow wistful. And beautiful, so beautiful.

She watched, fascinated. She'd seen him abuse the instrument a few times, and even though she knew he was capable, she'd never actually seen him play it before. It was fascinating to see the way the fingers of his left hand raced along the strings, and when her eyes met his, he looked a bit bashful, the tiniest smile in the corner of his mouth.

Then, suddenly, the whole pace slowed, and for a moment the tune stretched out like melted toffee, slow and languorous, before speeding faster than before, higher pitched and faster, faster.

His motions were becoming grander, his left hand moving incredibly fast while his bow arm moved in huge, sweeping arcs. She wasn't sure if it was the fire in the fireplace, or the way he was exerting himself, but there were tiny drops of sweat on his forehead. She realized it then; she was his audience. He was performing for her.

She remembered what he said about audiences.

She couldn't help it; big, fat, stupid tears started rolling down her cheeks. Molly wiped her face with the hem of her shirt. Hormones, she decided. It had to be hormones. Which made it worse.

Sherlock stopped and exhaled, looking uncomfortable. "Gratifying as it is to move an audience to tears, applause works just as well."

"Shut up," she said fondly, sniffling.

"Your wish is my - strong suggestion," he said. And with that, the silly man actually bowed.

Molly couldn't help herself, she laughed, and she clapped.

And then, of course, the baby woke up.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sarah and John stood at the door to 221B with the gift for Molly and Sherlock's baby at their feet. John had been a bit uneasy about accepting Sherlock's invitation, but he usually was when it came to Sarah and Sherlock mixing too much. John put a good face on and tried not to let it show, though, and Sarah appreciated that. She and Molly were friendly in that way colleagues often are, and knew many of the same people, professionally. She and Sherlock, well, they were friendly for a certain Sherlock-sanctioned meaning of the word. And she wanted to see this mysterious baby.

She felt a bit nosy, a bit like a looky-loo, but she'd feel just as awkward letting John bring a gift on his own. So she was going to satisfy her curiosity and get a good look at Molly and Sherlock's baby.

They had rung his bell twice when Sherlock opened Molly's door.

"Down here!" he called. Sherlock was in his pajamas at 7 p.m., with the baby in his arms.

"Oh, congratulations, Sherlock," she said, surprising herself. "Oh my goodness, isn't he sweet? And so much hair! Oh John, look at him." She looked up at Sherlock, trying to get a feel for whether or not he'd let her hold the baby, but the look on his face said it all: fat chance.

"Thank you," he said, with the oddest expression she had ever seen, one she couldn't pin a name, or even an emotional state, to.

Once they were properly inside the flat, Sarah looked around. It was lovely and modern, a little untidy, and a little bit cluttered, but nowhere near the mess Sherlock's flat had usually been when John still lived there, even with John's love of order and penchant for tidiness. So, all in all, it was about what she'd expect for new parents.

New parents. Even thinking it was weird. 'Sherlock' and 'parent' didn't seem to belong in a sentence together.

Molly stuck her head through the doorway, looking faintly alarmed. She, too, was in her pajamas and dressing gown. "Oh," she said mildly. "Hello?"

"Oh, by the way, Molly, John and Sarah will be dropping over, right about, oh, now," Sherlock said, rubbing the baby's back.

"Oh, yes, well, I see that. Um, hi. Welcome," she said. "Thanks for telling me, Sherlock, so I could make sure I was, um, presentable. Or even dressed."

"If I'd have asked you, you'd have said no," Sherlock explained, "and if I'd told you, you'd have run around in a panic. This way, you've done neither."

"Yes, again, thanks so much."

"Why do you think I ordered so much fish? You and I could not eat that much fish." Which sounded like Sherlock-logic as Sarah understood it.

"I'll throw in a few more chips, then, shall I?"

Seeing Molly's distress, John shot Sherlock a glare. "So sorry, Molly, we don't want to be any trouble. We could come back another time. Or I could throttle this idiot and dispose of the body. Your choice."

Sherlock glared back, but said nothing.

"Tempting," Molly said. "No. honestly, it's no trouble. It's just, you know, a surprise. I wish I didn't look such a mess. Very glamourous, new motherhood."

"Modesty hardly seems to be in order with someone who has seen your internal organs," Sherlock said, as though he was being put upon.

"True enough," John said, "but I promise, I only looked when it was medically necessary. And for the record, your pancreas is adorable. You can't fake that."

Sarah was happy to see Molly giggle and blush. Sherlock scowled. Jealousy? Oh, that was rich.

John chuckled, and Sherlock scowled harder.

"Can I help?" Sarah offered.

"I've got it, I'm fine, thanks." Molly smiled a smile that suggested she didn't actually want help. "Maybe someone else would like to hold the baby, Sherlock."

"Maybe they would," Sherlock replied. "Too bad."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Why don't you come in the kitchen and keep me company?" she suggested to Sarah. "Tea, anyone?"

"Sure," Sarah said. "Tea sounds great. Let me help. John? Sherlock? Tea?"

"Working on disposal plans for a body right now, thanks anyway," John said.

Sherlock was clearly not amused. "No, thank you," he answered.

"More for us," Molly said, and led the way.

Sarah found and filled the kettle, apologizing as she went. "I'm so sorry, Molly, I had no idea. I can't believe John trusted Sherlock to give you the message."

Molly shrugged. "You know how they are. John probably made him swear to tell me and Sherlock thought he had, or you know, that I'd have deduced it based on which socks he'd worn that day or something." She shook her head. "I've been lucky, though. Eddie's a good sleeper and he's been sleeping through the night since we came home from the hospital, so I am getting some rest. And I squeezed in a two-hour nap this afternoon, so I'm good."

"And Sherlock?" Sarah asked, feeling bold.

Molly stopped peeling potatoes and frowned. "He's here all the time," she said. "He's very attached to Eddie. He's trying to be helpful. He's um -"

"Under foot?" Sarah suggested.

Molly grinned. "A bit, yeah."

John pokes his head around the corner. "Any chance on that tea?"

Sarah nods to the pot under its cozy. "Steeping," she said.

"How've you been, Molly?" John asked. He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat. "Sherlock driven you mad yet?"

Sherlock wandered in with the baby on his chest. Sarah noted a spit up stain on his shoulder. "Why is everyone in the kitchen?" he asked. "Are you lot conspiring? Edmund, I believe they're conspiring."

"You know the rule," Molly said, pointing at Sherlock. "Babies and hot fat don't mix. John, can you take your tea and Sherlock and Eddie out to the other room, please? I'll be done in fifteen minutes or so. Promise."

John was working hard not to smile as he followed Sherlock back to the sitting room.

"So?" Sarah said. "How are you healing? Staples out yet?"

"Day before yesterday," she said, cutting the potatoes she'd peeled into the most regular slices Sarah had ever seen produced by a human hand. "Sherlock did it for me. You should have seen the face he pulled. But fair's fair, God knows I've sewn him up often enough. And I couldn't be bothered to trudge all the way to the hospital with the baby and wait ages for something I could do myself. Your husband does very nice work, by the way."

Even though she was a doctor herself, Sarah had to work to keep from wincing.

"He's a lovely baby, Molly, just gorgeous. He seems even-tempered."

Molly smiled. "He is. Sleeps through the night, like I said, and he barely cries. I know it's supposed to be good for lung development, but when he's awake he's mostly eating or looking round."

"Nothing to cry about, I suppose."

"Guess I'm lucky," Molly said, and lowered a basket of fish into the sizzling oil.

It was weird. They could be anyone. Who knew Sherlock had it in him?

It still left one question, the same one on the lips of everyone who knew Sherlock.

"This is terribly nosy of me, Molly, and tell me to get stuffed if you want, but -" Sarah said, inhaling sharply, "- how did all this happen?"

Molly turned her back, fiddling with fish.

"I'm sorry." Sarah felt very foolish. "That was just rude. I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."

"No," Molly said, still facing the fryer. "I'm sure everyone's wondering. It's simple, really. I wanted a baby and he volunteered to help. It's seemed like such a bad idea at first, but -" Molly turned to her, blushed red to the roots of her hair, "- well, have you looked at him?"

Sarah snorted a laugh. She'd have to be blind not to have noticed he was a very attractive man. Especially when his mouth was closed.

Molly shrugged. "It was supposed to be a one time thing, but, well, it turned out to be like opening the packet and thinking you'd be satisfied eating one crisp. For me, anyway." She lifted the basket out of the fryer and shook it. "Honestly, I've no idea what he's getting out of it. Food's ready!"

Sarah looked at the clock. Fourteen minutes after Molly started peeling potatoes, they were in the sitting room eating the best fish and chips Sarah had had in her life.

"This is amazing," Sarah said, torn between stuffing her face and not burning herself. She watched as Sherlock balanced a baby in one arm with a piece of fish in the other, ripping the fish in half and releasing the steam before taking a bite. She'd never thought of it, but she'd never seen him eat before, and she'd actually been at meals with him. She guessed this explained how Sherlock's cheeks got filled in.

"Thank you," Molly said politely. "Grew up over a chippy, so I've done this a few times before."

Sherlock gave her an odd look. Something about what she'd said did not sit right with him, but Sarah could not imagine what.

"No wonder Sherlock's gain-" John started to say, but Sarah shot him a panicked look.

"We've brought a present," she said, "for the baby. John, could you -?"

"Yes, right," John said, and made a lunge for the package they'd left by the door.

Sherlock glared at Sarah and at John, both. John shoved the big box in Molly's direction.

"Oh thank you," Molly smiled. "That's sweet of you, thanks so much."

"No wonder Sherlock's what?" Sherlock said.

"I'm opening," Molly said.

"I've never seen you look better," Sarah said diplomatically. "You look healthy, Sherlock. And that baby suits you."

Sherlock raised one brow, but said nothing.

Apparently, realizing it was time for drastic action, John set down his plate and held out his hands. "Give him here."

Sherlock gave Sarah a brief dirty look, but all his attention was soon back on the baby.

"Come on, hand him over." John positioned the baby to face Molly, but little Eddie turned his head and peered at Sarah out of the corner of his eye, the same way Sherlock did. It was uncanny.

"Oh, this is lovely," Molly said. "This is so sweet of you. Thank you both so much."

Sherlock sniffed but didn't say a word. Sarah watched as John examined the baby.

"I thought Eddie might enjoy it. He's a brilliant baby. I swear I can see him thinking," John said, studying him.

Sherlock's chest visibly swelled.

John looked at Sarah, then at Eddie. "We should get one of these for our flat," said pointedly.

"Well, you can't have this one," Sherlock said.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Later in the cab, John was sitting, full of fish and questions, when Sarah turned to him.

"That was - nice," she said.

He had no idea what to say. There had a been a moment, just a split second while he was telling Sherlock a funny story, a very funny story, about something that happened at a border crossing during the honeymoon, when he noticed Sherlock wasn't paying attention at all. No, Sherlock had the baby over his shoulder and was looking at Molly, who was bent over in the kitchen. It had struck him as so odd. He'd never seen Sherlock looking at a woman, or a man, for that matter, like that before.

But that wasn't the oddest part. The truly odd part was how embarrassed Sherlock was, like a kid almost, like it was the most mortifying thing in the world to be caught looking at a girl's arse, particularly when the 'girl' in question was the mother of your child. Only, of course, Sherlock would have said 'backside.'

John still had no idea what Sherlock was playing at. And he more than suspected Sherlock had no idea, either.

"Yes, it was," he said. Somehow, looking at Sarah, thinking of the good food and nice baby, and how strangely domestic the entire evening had been, he burst out laughing. "Yes, nice. Bizarre, but nice."

Whatever it was, it was contagious, because Sarah began laughing too. "So domestic. It was so strange."

John laughed harder. "I know."

"Careful," Sarah gasped, "I think Sherlock is jealous of your familiarity with Molly's pancreas."

He couldn't stop himself he was wheezing. Tears were coming out of his eyes. "Now we won't be even until he sees yours," he coughed.

"That's a bit scary, considering. Oh, stop, stop," Sarah laughed. "Ow, my side hurts."

"It's probably your pancreas," John said, still laughing.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!


	6. Chapter 6

Four evenings later, Molly made Sherlock go to the shops. Forced him. It was unfair of her, first catching a cold and then describing, in minute detail, the last time she went for nappies and her milk let down and soaked her shirt in the middle of the Tesco. He'd surrendered and gone, just to avoid having to hear the story again.

The sooner that child was housebroken, the better.

He caught sight of himself in the supermarket window and stopped short. No predatory animal, he. He'd been forced to try three shirts before he found one that he could wear comfortably that didn't have a stain on it somewhere. Even freshly showered and wearing clean clothes, he smelled entirely of baby and faintly of baby sick. Sarah had been right about him: he was going soft, had gone soft. By all appearances, Sherlock had been thoroughly domesticated.

He involuntarily ground his back teeth.

Pushing the trolley through the store, gathering things he wanted rather than needed - three kinds of biscuits, none of which Molly liked, blood oranges, napa cabbage, other things she hadn't asked for and probably had no idea how to use.

He was reluctant to enter the baby aisle, populated as it no doubt was by soft, toothless, needy men. Harmless men. Sherlock hadn't been harmless a day in his life.

He was seized by the sudden urge to go back to Baker Street and shake Molly awake, inform her in no uncertain terms that he was not harmless, he was not a pet, he couldn't be kept in the flat indefinitely, minding a baby, any baby, even if it was mostly his decision to do so.

He wasn't her damned boyfriend. He definitely wasn't her husband. If he had his way, he would go straight back there and tell her so while buried deep inside her, just to make the point perfectly clear.

But there was a six week moratorium on intercourse, with four more weeks to go. At this rate, he would go mad first.

It had never bothered him to go without sex before. It was nothing but an itch to be scratched, or not, as he chose. Now, he had grown sick of sleeping in his own bed, alone, and he couldn't share Molly's without wanting. He couldn't wait to let his hands roam over her body. He couldn't wait to touch her. He couldn't wait to be touched.

A month was too long.

He looked up to find himself in the condom aisle. Perhaps he should buy a box in preparation for the lifting of his exile? The ones in his flat were well over a year old.

Would he need condoms? They were unnecessary from a disease standpoint and he wouldn't enjoy going back to them. Perhaps Molly had planned for some sort of birth control. Or perhaps she'd like another baby to keep Edmund company. Sherlock weighed the advantages of postponing condom use for another year or so with the disadvantages of twice the nappies.

He grabbed a box and turned to hear someone who seemed to be addressing him.

"Stewart?"

Male. Blond. Muscular build. Roughly his own height.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He hadn't been 'Stewart' in close to two years, and certainly not around here.

"Fancy running into you here." The blond coloured a bit and laughed. Sherlock searched his mind for a name. Bill. At least he had called himself Bill. And -

Oh.

Having condoms didn't require he use them with Molly.

Sherlock could easily see exactly how it would play out. All Bill would need was the right smile; that was all he needed the other time, if Sherlock recalled correctly. Stretch his lips far enough to produce the dimples - men and women alike responded to the dimples for some reason Sherlock had yet to fathom - and he could bugger Bill in the back of a cab, up against an alley wall, anywhere, if he wanted.

Not fellatio. He didn't think he could have it now without picturing Molly's large dark eyes reproaching him. A dark and furious assignation with little or no relation to what he did with - her; that would be the most discreet and convenient course of action. Prove to himself and everyone else he was not some mild, domestic pet, some bloody house cat.

Do up his trousers after, stuff the condom in his pocket, and have the cab drop him somewhere far from Baker Street. Drop the condom in a bin. Take another cab home.

Bill was giving him a remembering leer. Bill was large, solid. Sherlock could be as rough as he liked with Bill, and never think twice, never worry about hurting him.

Molly was little. Molly could be so easily hurt in so many ways.

Like this.

And this would hurt Molly, he knew, if he followed through. Even if she never found out, and Sherlock knew she wouldn't unless her told her, somehow -

Somehow, it would hurt her.

And if she found out?

She would pack her things and go. Immediately. And Edmund, being one of her things, he'd go, too. This would send them away forever, he knew it viscerally. No Molly ever again. No Edmund. Much worse than John getting married. Much worse than -

Oh Christ, what was he thinking? How had he turned into his own father while he wasn't looking?

He felt like he was going to be sick.

He pulled a random accent out of his bag of tricks, one he never would have used while on the pull. "Sorry, mate, wrong bloke," he said. He pushed the trolley to the end of the aisle, abandoned it, and walked out without the nappies or the oranges or the condoms or any of the things she'd sent him for.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

He took the first cab he could find, and he meant to go upstairs to his own flat. Meant to, but didn't.

Instead, he walked quietly into Molly's darkened flat, avoiding all the baby things, the unfolded laundry and assorted books and toys that seemed to multiply whenever one turned one's back, and slipped into her bedroom.

He could just make out the shape of her under the duvet. He removed his shoes, but otherwise remained dressed, and as quietly as he could, crept to the other side. With studied care, he climbed in and put his arm round her waist.

Not his girlfriend. Definitely not his wife.

"Sherlock?" She sounded even more congested than when he'd left. "I'm tired and everything hurts. Please let me sleep. Whatever you want, I'll do it tomorrow, I promise, okay? Please."

And there it was. That's what she thought of him. Was that what he was? The sort of male who destroyed everything round him, everything of value, just because he could?

"Shut up," he muttered.

"What?"

"Shut up," he repeated, feeling, for the first time he could recall, that he wanted to cry.

"Sherlock?" She sounded concerned and tried to twist in his arms, but he held her firm.

"Spare me your sex-obsessed ramblings, Molly. Shut up and go to sleep."

For all her much-vaunted docility, Molly couldn't follow simple directions. Instead, she rolled awkwardly to face him, though the movement was clearly painful.

"Are you okay?" she said, putting her hand to his forehead, and then, apparently satisfied he wasn't feverish, raking her fingers through his hair.

"I'm fine. Of course I'm fine," he assured her.

"Are you sure?" she asked stroking his face. It was at once a form of tender torture and exactly what he hoped for.

"Go to sleep, Molly," he said, trying to sound as though he was not lying in her arms, hating himself.

"I'm awake now." She touched his lip with her finger, and then slowly traced his chin, his jaw, his throat.

It felt wonderful, like she was kissing him with her fingertips, and he wanted more. "Would you please stop poking at me?" he said.

Molly didn't take the bait. She was silent a long time. "I don't want you getting any ideas, Sherlock."

"Ideas about what?"

She ran her finger along the scar at his lip. "You're not my boyfriend."

Sherlock didn't look at her, but he felt her delicate fingertip. "I'm not." He swallowed thickly. "Not a bit."

"You've got a bed upstairs," she said, still touching his face, his neck, the skin below his ear.

"Yes," he agreed. He was afraid if she didn't just shut up he would burst into flame.

She cupped his cheek. "But, you're always welcome here."

He exhaled shakily. "Am I?"

"You are," she said. "To visit with Eddie. To visit with me. To sleep or - not sleep. Anytime."

"Perhaps when I haven't a case," he said. He hoped she had the grace not to point out he had been turning down every case that came his way for well over a month.

"Perhaps. You should take one soon, though. Lestrade must be going spare." Molly put her arms round him. "Ow! Are you fully dressed? Is that your belt? At least take that off."

"Go to sleep, Molly," he said feeling inexplicably better about his situation, if not himself.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

D.I. Lestrade wished he could say he'd given Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper a second thought after that night at The Yard, but he hadn't. Too bad he didn't have the time or the energy to worry over Sherlock's domestic arrangements; too bad it never crossed his mind until he set foot in Sherlock's flat and found him -

- singing to a baby?

It was a new baby, very new, with a head of dark hair and full, red lips.

Lestrade had figured it out that night Molly was in his office, of course, but there'd be no point in anyone denying it any longer. Anyone who knew Sherlock would see the resemblance.

"I texted," Lestrade said. "You didn't answer. I was worried you were dead."

"My hands are full," Sherlock said, as though Lestrade couldn't be trusted to see he was holding a baby.

"Yeah, I see that," he said, trying not to look too surprised. "So, what's this, then?"

"An infant." Sherlock still hadn't looked away from the baby.

"Even I got that." Lestrade said. "Boy or girl?"

"Edmund, as the name would suggest, is male."

"You babysitting for someone?" Lestrade asked. "A neighbour, maybe."

Sherlock looked away from the baby long enough to glare.

"I'm taking the piss, mate. Congratulations."

Sherlock was always so composed, but his reaction this time was confused and guarded. He took the baby, who had been stretched out along his forearm with his head in the palm of Sherlock's hand, and held him close to his chest. Sherlock's head was down, he looked worried, but the corner of his mouth quirked. It was the first time he had ever seen Sherlock seem shy. "Thank you."

"Relax, I'm not going to tell anyone." Lestrade wasn't stupid; he was perfectly aware of the kind of shit the poor kid was in for simply by virtue of his paternity. No need to make it worse than it had to be by adding grist to the mill. "Give him here."

Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock handed over the baby. "Thank you, Detective Inspector," he said in a soft uneasy voice.

"Geoff, yeah, at least when we're off the clock? I've been bloody calling you Sherlock forever." Lestrade could see Sherlock nod out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't seem to have anything to say.

There was a silence that stretched as Lestrade held the warm baby, who squinted at him as though he were evidence. He remembered when his own kids were this small. It was funny how you could see their little personalities, even at this age. It was plain this kid had a lot of Sherlock in him, but he was already calmer, less of a raw nerve.

"I'm here about a case," Lestrade said at last.

"I know," Sherlock said. "The dead racehorse, and the two unrelated murders. If you look, you may find they are less unrelated than previously imagined."

"Marvelous," Lestrade said. He'd had a feeling about that, but he'd kept telling himself it was ridiculous. "So, you want in?"

Sherlock seemed to consider it for a moment, then nodded.

"You could ride along if you like," Lestrade said, watching the baby watch him. He'd seen police sergeants with less focus.

"No, thank you. I'll meet you at the veterinarian's office," Sherlock replied. "Very shortly."

Which was no surprise. Lestrade knew he'd never ride in a police car if he had a choice.

"Oi! What's keepin' the Freak? I thought he'd be -" Sally called up the stairs. She stopped mid-sentence the minute she set foot in the sitting room.

At the same time, with one bath towel wrapped round her barely keeping Lestrade from getting an eyeful, and drying her hair with another, came Molly Hooper saying, "I thought I'd give Eddie his breakfast before I got dressed, so I don't end up getting my clothes all milky. I know it's postponing the inev -" her eyes went round when she saw the police in Sherlock's sitting room. "Oh. Hello."

Lestrade's first thought was that Molly Hooper looked surprisingly good for having just had a baby. His second thought was that Sherlock Holmes was once again luckier than he deserved. His third was that, if he'd left two minutes earlier, a grand row could have been avoided.

Maybe he could still avoid it. "Wouldn't be my first choice of babysitter, either," Lestrade said, catching Molly's eye. "Or showers, come to that. Last time I looked, he was culturing bacteria in there."

"It was fungus," Sherlock corrected, looking and sounding just like himself. "And beggars can't be choosers, can they? When is that plumber coming, Doctor Hooper?"

"Ummm, M- monday," Molly stuttered.

Sally looked skeptical, then brightened. "Mind if I hold him?"

Lestrade looked at Molly and then at Sally.

Molly went stiff, but if nothing else she was polite. "Sure. Um, you've held a baby before?"

Sherlock, on the other hand, looked like he was going to be ill.

"Sure, loads. Oldest of five didn't get much choice." Sally took the baby out of Lestrade's arms. She looked at the baby intently, then at Molly, then glanced up at Sherlock, while trying to pretend she wasn't. Sally was a lot of things, including a damn fine police woman, but she was bollocks at subtlety. In her favor she kept her thoughts to herself. "Oh, isn't he lovely? How old?"

Molly said, "He's three weeks old."

"And one day," Sherlock added with a scowl.

"He's a big boy, isn't he? What's his name?"

"Edmund," Molly said.

"You look good for three weeks," Sally said. "Getting a lot of help, are you?"

"Yes. Um, yeah, thanks," Molly said with a forced smile.

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "My cab should be here soon. If you intend to dress at some point today, perhaps you would like to go to your own flat while there is someone here to carry the baby downstairs for you."

"Yes, um, thanks, Sherlock," Molly said.

Sherlock took the baby from Sally without a word.

Next time Lestrade saw Sherlock, the case was the only thing on either of their minds.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

For six days, Sherlock didn't eat, barely slept, played the violin at odd hours, and kept to his own flat.

To Molly, it felt oddly normal. The violin didn't seem to faze Eddie, and he slept right through. She supposed he'd heard enough of it in utero to be used to it.

Then, on the seventh day, at 2 a.m., she woke up to Sherlock sitting on the edge of her bed with Eddie in his arms.

"How's the case?" Molly asked, rubbing her eyes.

"Solved," Sherlock said.

"Good." She pulled back the duvet. "Want in?"

"No. I'd prefer something to eat, if it's all the same," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, It's 2 a.m."

"So?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't want to get up and cook," she explained.

"Because of the time?"

"Yes, because of the time."

Sherlock sniffed, making the face she knew, even if it had taken months to learn, was his hurt face. "Well, then -"

"Right, you haven't eaten in days, have you? Fine. I'll make you a sandwich." Molly rubbed her face, trying to wake herself up a bit. "Nothing elaborate, though."

"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock nodded and cradled Eddie close to his chest. "I - thank you."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

The day started with a tiger. Or, at least, that was how Molly thought of it.

She was awakened by a strong, strange smell and the sensation of sinking at the foot of her bed. Her eyes opened like they were spring-loaded and she sat up like a shot. Sherlock was sitting on the foot of her bed, filthy, his hair full of grass. No, hay. And smelling like a farm. No, a zoo.

"Where've you been?" she asked, rubbing her eyes. "You smell awful."

"The circus," he said. "I believe I may require a stitch or two."

"In your coat?" she asked, seeing that it was torn and wondering if she had the proper colour of thread. On closer inspection, she realized it was actually sawdust in Sherlock's hair.

"No, in my leg," he said. In short order, he stood and, with precise movements, removed his coat, the lower right side of which looked as though it had been attacked by wild animals. He then removed his trousers, which were slightly less ruined, but ruined just the same. There were three equally spaced scratches deep in the front of his thigh.

Molly inhaled. "That looks nasty. What were you doing at the circus?"

Sherlock squinted at her. "A case, of course. You do recall that I have those?"

He had laid out all his necessary supplies - antiseptic, several flannels, needle, sutures, and scissors, on her bed while she was sleeping.

"A lion?"

"No, tiger," he said. "It's not nearly as bad as it might have been."

Molly wondered how bad that was. Having to tell her son his father had been eaten by a tiger? Exactly whose life was she living, again? Who got eaten by tigers in London in the 21st century? Sherlock Holmes, that's who.

Well, not eaten, thank heavens. Scratched up a bit, though, quite a bit, actually.

It looked, not surprisingly, exactly like a giant cat scratch.

"Are your jabs up to date?" Who knew what sort of bacteria lurked in the stool of exotic cats.

"Yes, Dr. Hooper." Sherlock sounded bored, but too bad.

She picked up a flannel, liberally doused it with antiseptic, and applied it to the wounds. Only one of them was deep enough to need stitches. Good thing his poor coat was so sturdy.

"If you want me to do a doctor's work you can expect me to behave like a doctor," she said. "Which ones have you had?"

"All of them," he said, grimacing as she scrubbed. "Hep a through z, diphtheria, pertussis, small pox, yellow fever - "

"How old is your tetanus?" she asked before he could say any more.

"Updated a year ago."

"Where was John when this happened?" She applied a bit of lidocaine to numb the wound.

"Not in the tiger cage," he said, through gritted teeth.

"Oh." She carefully drew the two sides of the wound together with the thread.

"So, have you solved it or are you rushing back out?"

She noticed that despite his wince, he was giving her a look. A look that either meant he didn't approve of her sleeping in a t-shirt and knickers, or that he really, really, very much did approve. It was definitely o ne of those.

"Finished," he hissed. "It was a conspiracy of clowns."

"Literally?" She put in a fourth stitch. He'd need at least four more.

"Yes," he said, watching closely as she sewed. "The tyranny of Bobo was ended rather effectively by his fellows."

"I see." She worked in silence for a few minutes more, knotted the end of the thread and clipped it short. "There you go. I'll speak to John about getting you antibiotics to be on the safe side. Good as new, or you will be soon enough. Wish I could say the same for your poor coat."

Sherlock arched his left brow. "My coat?"

"It's a nice coat. I'll miss it," she said, wanting to tease him a little. "If I still went to church, I'd go light a candle."

Sherlock looked puzzled, then amused. "I'm not sure this fetish is quite wholesome, but I suppose I could easily get another one."

Molly gathered up her Sherlock-repair supplies and tried not to laugh. "It suits you, that coat, suits you very well. Suited now, I guess."

"It was off-the-rack. I would think they made more than the one." Sherlock stood. "These trousers are a loss, as well."

And at that moment, Molly wondered how long Eddie was going to sleep. Sherlock was giving her a sideways glance, one that suggested he might be wondering the same thing. Either that, or he wanted something fried. Perhaps he was weighing that question himself.

He wasn't in a rush to get to his own flat, that much was certain. He ran his hands through his hair, filling the air with sawdust. Removing his shirt, he sniffed it, frowned slightly. "It smells of camel," he said. "That was the murder weapon; a camel. It was rather ingenious."

"You smell of camel, you mean."

"I most certainly do not." He held the shirt out at arm's length and then gestured to himself. "See for yourself."

How exactly was Molly going to turn down an invitation like that?

She sniffed the shirt. Clearly camel. Well, how she imagined camel would smell. Stronger than sheep or cows, different to horses. She'd have to take Sherlock's word for it. She'd never been near a camel.

She set the shirt down on the bed and stepped up to Sherlock burying her nose in his chest. Inhaled slowly. No cologne, but he had that 'been working' smell about him - a little sweat, a little soap, and a lot of Sherlock. Molly couldn't help humming with appreciation.

"So?" he asked.

"I can't say. I've no idea what a camel smells like. I've never been to the circus."

"Really?" Sherlock turned his head at a funny angle to look into her face. "Thirty-four years old and you've never been to the circus?"

"No," she said, her head still on his chest. "My dad couldn't really leave the shop and there was no one else to take me. We never really went anywhere. After that, I was at uni or here, in London. The circus never came into it."

Sherlock nodded to himself, and whatever he was thinking, he kept that to himself, too. Well, not entirely to himself. He held very still as certain parts of him pressed against her hip.

She pressed back, trying to avoid his leg. He looked a bit embarrassed. Molly wasn't sure if he was embarrassed by his erection or the fact that she'd never been to the circus, or something else entirely.

"So, you like playing doctor, then?" She felt stupid the minute she said it. How could he resist her? she wondered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's hardly playing when one of you has actually been to medical school. But, yes. Something like that."

Oh.

He had to be full of adrenaline. But embarrassed by it. Well, that was a new one. The embarrassment, at least.

She put one hand on his cheek, and the other on the bulge at the front of his trousers. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and remained perfectly still. Licked his lips again.

Molly thought perhaps that was a hint.

"Would you like me to -?" She put her finger to her mouth.

"I -" Sherlock shrugged and looked round the room furtively. "Yes. I - yes. Please."

"I think I'd like that, too," she said, and realized she meant it. It had been forever.

He reached out and stroked her hair, still looking embarrassed. She slid her hand into the waist of his boxers and it was so nice - Sherlock on one side, silk on the other. She wrapped her hand round him and he moaned. Her mouth watered in anticipation. She hoped Eddie didn't wake up -

She needn't have worried; her stupid phone went off instead.

"It's probably just Mycroft. Again," she said. She didn't like Sherlock's brother, but she tried to be polite. "He's been calling since yesterday. When I answer, he just asks why you aren't taking his calls. Told him I am not your P.A. "

"I was busy being mauled," he said with a muffled grunt. Then he opened his eyes. "Oh. What day is it?"

"Saturday." She began sliding those lovely silk boxers down, down, do-

He grasped her hand, stopping her. "Which Saturday?"

"Twenty-somethingth of March," she said. "Why?"

"Tomorrow is Mothering Sunday?"

Molly nodded. "I think so."

On that note, Sherlock stepped back, pulling his penis out of her hand. He tugged up his pants and made a grab for her phone at the same time.

"Excuse me?" she said. 'What -"

"Mycroft. Yes. Yes, I was working. Working, Mycroft, try it some time. Nine o'clock? Right, I've a few matters to see to before we leave London. Well, obviously. Of course I am, you are bringing the clones, are you not? There you are."

"Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"Change of plans." Sherlock stood there and smiled his dangerously charming smile at her. "Let's get cleaned up and do a bit of shopping, shall we?"

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock couldn't believe it was impossible to hire a personal shopper the Saturday before Mothering Sunday. Well, amend that: he couldn't believe it was impossible for him to hire a personal shopper the Saturday before Mothering Sunday. Apparently, they were all booked and there was nothing he could do about it.

And Molly was indecisive and extra timid and it was tiresome, particularly since he had a schedule to keep to.

A cashmere twin-set and pencil skirt later, with some overnight things and an outfit for Sunday in hand, he was able to drag her to a nearby hairdresser, where he used all of Mycroft's pull to secure Molly an appointment.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Growing up, Molly's father had cut her hair in the kitchen. She'd given a hair dresser a try twice when she was a teenager and twice again at uni, but it was always the same; she had uncooperative, stick-straight hair that the stylists tried and failed to wrestle into submission. She always ended up feeling awkward and inadequate as a client, which she knew was stupid. But going to the salon made her feel as though there was a set of rules no one had bothered telling her about. It was a place she didn't belong and they always did things she didn't want but didn't have the nerve to say 'no' to.

But Sherlock, like a whirlwind, had taken her from Harrods', God help her, to a hair salon where, in his horrible, but also a bit wonderful Sherlock way, he'd given all the orders. For which, it turned out, she was grateful, as she could never bring herself to tell these people what to do. Lord, she could hardly bring herself to string two words together in a situation like this.

And Sherlock was clear with them - no hair coloring, no curling, and absolutely no trimming more than one and one-half centimeters, and don't think he wouldn't know the difference.

There was a moment, the sort of moment that kept her away from hairdressers in general, where the man laid his hand on her shoulder and grinned at her reflection in the mirror.

"And what were you thinking, luv?"

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed. "She wasn't," he said. "And you've been given your directions."

Molly had never before been so grateful that Sherlock was a complete git.

She smiled at him and he answered with a tight smile and a nod. "Tell your mother good-bye, Edmund," he said, lifting the baby carrier for her to plant a kiss on his forehead.

She felt far more frightened than she had reason to be. "Bye, sweetie."

Molly didn't much like being touched by strangers, which was odd, considering she spent her work day touching dead strangers in a fairly intimate way. She supposed they could fuss with her hair all they liked when she was dead and she wouldn't be bothered.

She didn't much like Sherlock taking off to find a new coat with Edmund and leaving her alone, either.

After two hours of being washed, dried, teased, and straightened, she looked in the mirror and - holy Mary! - she looked pretty! She couldn't wait for Sherlock to see.

And she didn't have to wait for long, because less than five minutes later, Sherlock strode in wearing his new-old coat, with Edmund in his arms, and no sign of the carrier. He looked exactly like Sherlock Holmes. With a baby.

Molly felt hopeful as he stared her up and down. But his expression was less than bright.

He didn't even address her. Instead he turned to the stylist. "What have you done?" he said, his voice flat.

"I like it," Molly said honestly. "What's wrong?

"Not much," Sherlock said, "If the look you were aiming at was a twelve year old girl dressed up as a fairy in a Christmas panto. All you need is a pair of bent wire wings."

"I beg your pardon?" the hairdresser said.

Molly looked into the sea of mirrors. Oh God, it was true. Now that Sherlock had said it, it was all she could see. She didn't look lovely and ethereal; she looked silly. Why was it that one sentence from him was all it took to ruin anything? Why did he have to be right?

"Something that won't give my mother the impression I'm a hebephiliac fairy fetishist, if you please, something decidedly less neotenic." He waved his hand at the hairdresser. "I'd prefer if it doesn't look as if I lured her into a car with a bag of sweets."

That was the first sentence that made the pit of Molly's stomach drop. This wasn't about her at all; this was about her not embarrassing him in front of 'Mummy'.

"Your mother?" Molly asked.

"Yes, my mother," Sherlock said. "Where else would we be going?"

"You might have told me," Molly said.

He sniffed. "I didn't realize it was necessary."

She squinted at him. "Yes you did, which is exactly why you didn't do it. All you had to say was 'Molly, would you like to meet my mother?' It's not difficult," she said, exasperated. "Did you think I'd say no?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Molly, as soon as you look as though you've completed puberty, would you care to spend the weekend at my mother's house in the country, with Edmund, myself, Mycroft, his horrid twins, who appear to have been squeezed from a tube, his equally horrid wife, who is the tube from which they were squeezed, and yes, my mother?" he asked. "She was expecting us an hour ago."

"It's a very busy day, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps if you'd been clear from the beginning, we -" the stylist began.

"Something simple, away from the jaw, should suffice," Sherlock said. "And stronger lipstick, something more vibrant. Please." Molly knew that particular use of the word 'please' meant 'now, before I make you regret it.'

In half an hour, Sherlock directing every step of the way, and Eddie clearly starting to get hungry, she was finally brought up to Sherlock's standard. She didn't know whether to be flattered that she rated meeting his mother, frightened to death at the idea, or insulted that he cared so much more about his mother's opinion than Molly's. She was sure to say something stupid. In the mirror, though, she did look more adult and solid, but she wasn't sure when she'd ever felt worse in her life. She was nothing but a prop.

Sherlock was on his phone the whole trip. The car rolled toward Mummy Holmes as if it were heading towards Molly's execution. She nearly dislocated her shoulder trying to nurse Eddie in his carseat.

How had it come to this? She distinctly remembered Sherlock saying 'no strings attached.' Yes, they were sleeping together. Yes, he had moved her in downstairs from him. And yes, Sherlock was doing somewhere close to half Eddie's daily care when he wasn't on a case. But by what definition was meeting his mother 'no strings attached?'

Molly hadn't really agreed to any of it, not really. But somehow, Sherlock had taken her, the way he constantly took D.I. Lestrade's warrant card, and put her in his pocket.

The question was whether or not she wanted to be there.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly had known the first time she met him that Sherlock was posh. The way he spoke, the way he dressed, the way he effortlessly assumed his own superiority; it would have been hard to miss.

But there was more than one kind of posh. Molly had known people who dressed and spoke and carried themselves the way Sherlock did, but had the same sort of life she had, really, with the only difference being an inherited 'country house' in desperate need of repairs they couldn't begin to afford.

As the car sped up the private road she had mistaken for a country lane, she realized, with a feeling of pure horror, that this was Sherlock's "Mummy's" house. It was huge. It was obscene. It was like something from a BBC serial. She expected Miss Marple and Cousin Bertie to come strolling out at any moment.

This house was not tumbledown, not a bit. Molly understood implicitly this level of upkeep meant staff. And money, of course, boatloads of money. For a girl raised above a chip shop, it was a bit overwhelming. Molly wanted to demand she be taken back to London immediately.

Except, while she was composing her speech, the car stopped and Sherlock practically leapt out, taking Eddie with him, moving so quickly it left her blinking.

"Come along," Sherlock ordered, popping his head back into the car.

Home. Sherlock was home. And a big sign flashing NOT MEANT TO BE was going off in her head.

While she sat there, goggling, his face suddenly appeared six inches from hers. "Come. Along."

Not knowing what else to do, she followed.

But apparently, she wasn't following fast enough for Sherlock's taste, because he grabbed her by the hand and fairly flung her along. It was, probably, the least romantic hand holding she had ever been party to in her life. And after they had barreled up the imposing steps, through the enormous carved doors, across a marble-tiled entrance hall, and then through a maze of oversized rooms, they came to a slightly less grand room that was actually occupied.

Sherlock dropped her hand like it was made of lava.

Well, it was nice to know where she stood.

An absolutely lovely older woman, tall and regal, with eyes as blue as Wedgewood and hair streaked black and white, held court. The corner of her mouth quirked in that same way Sherlock's did when he was surprised. She could only be 'Mummy.'

Sherlock practically tripped over his feet running to her.

The first thing 'Mummy' did was kiss Sherlock's free hand and he beamed at her, positively bloody beamed. Molly couldn't get that sort of reaction from him unless she took off her knickers. And handed him something deep fried. If then.

"Mummy," he said breathlessly, "may I introduce Edmund Vernet Hooper?" he said, holding Eddie out like a puppy or a prize pig or something he'd won at the funfair. "My son," he added.

Mummy looked pointedly at Molly and raised her eyebrow. Sherlock took the hint.

"And this is Dr. Mary Hooper. She's Edmund's mother. Mary," he said enunciating a bit too clearly, "this is my mother, Lady Violet Vernet Holmes."

"Pleased to meet you, Lady Holmes," Molly said, suppressing the stupid urge to curtsey like she was in a film.

"Please, call me Violet, Mary. May I call you Mary, Dr. Hooper?" Mummy said, taking Molly's hand. Mummy's accent was decidedly not English. Mummy's accent was decidedly French. That's what she got for taking Sherlock's words at face value - a bit French, her arse.

"Please, call me - " she was about tell Mummy to call her Molly, when Sherlock interrupted.

"Molly, no wine for Mary. Could she have a glass of milk, please?" he said, pointedly to, oh God, the maid? Oh God, yes, she had the same name as the housekeeper, or maid, or whatever she was. No wonder he was suddenly so stuck on calling her Mary.

Lady Violet gave Sherlock a look and then focused on Eddie.

"Is that where you got those cheeks?" Violet said, taking Eddie in her arms. She looked past Sherlock and spoke, looking so directly at Molly that she almost felt relieved when she looked away. "I breastfed Sherlock for three months before I went back to the symphony -"

Mycroft snorted. The woman beside him tittered. Sherlock groaned. Molly considered the fact that she now knew there was at least one thing she and Sherlock's mother had in common.

"Mummy, please," Sherlock grimaced.

"It was the 70's, darling, everyone was doing it." She was gazing now at Eddie. "You wouldn't think to look at him now, but Sherlock was the fattest baby."

Molly had never seen Sherlock look sheepish before.

"Mary, I should introduce you to my second cousin, Phillipa," Sherlock said determinedly. "She's married to Mycroft, whom you've had the distinct pleasure of meeting."

Phillipa was pretty, too, but like Sherlock her face was a bit narrow. You could see the family resemblance.

"Charmed," Phillipa said, looking anything but. "Do you mind my asking exactly what sort of doctor you are? For curiosity's sake?"

"I'm, I'm a pathologist," Molly said. "At Barts."

"St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London," Sherlock said.

Phillipa glared at Sherlock. "I know what Barts is, Sherlock."

"You do? Gold star for you, Phillipa," Sherlock said. "Do you know what a pathologist is as well? If you can tell me, cook's got an extra pudding you can throw up later."

"Sherlock!" Molly said. Really, that was too far, even for Sherlock.

"Pathology – from pathos, meaning suffering, and logia, meaning the study of, hence the study of suffering. Ideal, considering her choice of - friends."

"You must have been very motivated by the pud -" Sherlock was saying, when Violet looked away from Eddie for the first time.

"Children! Behave yourselves. Forgive them, Mary; they do this sort of thing whenever they're together, have done since Sherlock was old enough to be deliberately rude and Phillipa was old enough to know better." She scowled at Phillipa then Sherlock, who both turned away. Mycroft, having avoided the matter, looked mildly pleased with himself.

At that moment, a pair of little girls raced in. They could only be Mycroft's twins, the ones Sherlock had mentioned briefly and with decided distaste, but they didn't seem like 'horrid, spoilt, hideous little monsters' at all. They had the general family 'look': tall, dark hair, light eyes, all arms and legs, like a pair of colts. Thoroughbreds, of course.

"Grandmere! Grandmere! Molly said there was a baby. Is he really our cousin? Oh, look at him, isn't he clever? How sweet. What a darling! May we hold him?" They spoke in turn, but without seams in the conversation.

"It seems everyone in this family has misplaced their manners today," Violet said archly. "Come be introduced to your Aunt Mary."

"Gemma," Violet said as one girl took Molly's hand, "this is your new aunt, Dr. Mary Hooper, mother of your cousin, Edmund."

"Pleased to meet you, Gemma," Molly said, trying not to sound nervous, they were just children, after all. Though the 'aunt' part -

"Genevieve," Violet said next, "your aunt, Dr. Mary Hooper. She's a pathologist at a very nice hospital in London."

"Pleased to meet you, Genevieve," Molly said, a bit more confident this time.

They curtseyed. They honest-to-God curtseyed. No one had ever curtseyed to Molly before. It was unlikely anyone ever would again.

Mycroft kept glancing at Sherlock, then at Eddie, then back at Sherlock. Finally Mycroft came up with a pronouncement: "He favors you, Sherlock."

"Thank you," Sherlock practically sneered.

Haughty. That's what it was; he was haughty. Molly had been looking for a word to describe Sherlock for the better part of a year.

"I'm not certain he will in a few years, though," Mycroft said vaguely. "You do realize that you left your Stradivarius in the car?"

Sherlock took off like a shot.

Stradivarius? That instrument he abused was an actual Stradivarius? Molly felt like she was going to be ill.

Wealth dripped off of these people like sweat. That was why Sherlock had never had a proper job - there was no need of one. Absurdly nice flat, absurdly nice clothes; absurdly high-quality lab equipment. The violin he tortured and wooed her with when he couldn't sleep belonged in a museum, not on his mantle.

No wonder he hadn't seemed to understand just how much damned money a quarter of a million pounds was.

She had to be insane to be in love with him. Insane to even entertain the notion that he would love her back, even that he could ever love her back.

"Aunt Mary, are you feeling unwell?" either Gemma or Genevieve said. "Please, have my chair."

They really were very nice girls.

There was nothing for it but to drink her milk, and do her best to keep it down.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

At dinner, there were capons, bundles of asparagus, and salad with rocket. For dessert, pots de creme and abject humiliation.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

It would be wrong to say Phillipa loathed her brother-in-law; it would be investing entirely too much importance in Sherlock to put that strong an emotion on it. It would, however, be accurate to say she disliked him a great deal.

He was spoilt. He was rude. He had irritated her since he had been born. Literally.

At six, he'd set fire to her hair. His excuse was one of his 'experiments.' She'd liked to have experimented on him, the little twerp.

But that wasn't why she disliked him. She didn't, as a rule, have the energy for grudges, and certainly not a thirty year grudge. But Sherlock had come by her dislike honestly. He'd earned it, in fact. He was self-destructive; he was careless; he was a nasty, self-absorbed junkie, who worried his mother and his elder brother until they were both driven spare. Violet and Mycroft didn't deserve the anguish he put them through. She couldn't even begin to count the number of nights Mycroft sat up, worrying.

And Sherlock was so selfish that he never even noticed. Oh yes, he was off the drugs now, and everyone praised him like he'd done some extraordinary thing, saving his own neck, doing what everyone had been begging him to do for years. She wondered how long it would take until he found his way back to them. For now, Mycroft was free to give his attention to his own family, but as soon as that brother of his stuck a needle in his arm, they would be pushed to the back of his mind again.

And oh, how Violet and Mycroft doted on the little scab. It was sickening.

Christ, it was tiresome. Sherlock was tiresome.

And now look at him, playing the triumphal daddy. Please. And Violet, always so eager to be taken in by Sherlock, was practically beside herself. God.

Maybe she did loathe him a bit, after all.

To be fair, he was a rather nice baby. And the mother seemed perfectly inoffensive. Although, well, obviously a bit dodgy; you'd have to be to bear that maniac's child, wouldn't you?

What Phillipa wanted to know was whether Mycroft knew, and if so when?

If Sherlock had got it all past him, she'd like to know how. And if Mycroft did know and hadn't told her, she was going to make him pay. Dearly.

Well, if nothing else, she could make her toad of a brother-in-law squirm.

"You know, Sherlock," she said over her pot de crème, "your brother is getting quite predictable in his gift giving."

"Oh?" Sherlock said, absently poking at his food.

"He's dreadfully dull," she laughed. "Jewellery last year, a car this year, a jewellery year before last and so on, ad infinitum. The last really thoughtful gift he gave me was when the twins were born."

Mary laughed along uncomfortably.

"What did you get, dear?" she asked, as sweetly as she knew how.

"Excuse me?" Dr. Hooper said, blinking.

"To mark the birth of little Edmund?" Phillipa said brightly, completely certain the only thing Sherlock was likely to give anyone was a virus. "What did you get?"

It was perfect. Sherlock went deadly still, and Mary blushed.

"Umm, staples," she said, laughing that horribly uncomfortable laugh. "I got staples when Eddie was born."

Sherlock was suddenly much more interested in his pot de creme than he had been before.

Violet, however, was giving him a hard glare. "Mary, I would apologize for Sherlock, but if I started, I might never stop."

"Oh, no need," Mary said, clearly uncomfortable.

"I'd like to mark the occasion, though," Violet said, "just as I marked the birth of my granddaughters. I had a bit more notice then, though. Please, take this as a gift from me." Violet worked a ring off her finger. "It's a favorite of mine."

"Um, no, really, I couldn't," Mary said. She looked to Sherlock as if for guidance, but ha! What was she thinking? He was trying to reduce his spoon to its atomic components using only the power of his unblinking stare, the useless fool.

"Please." Violet pressed the ring into Mary's hand. "I insist."

It was Christmas in March. Violet had given away her gorgeous art deco platinum diamond and emerald ring. And Sherlock looked as though he'd been stabbed in the leg with a fork.

The weekend was shaping up, after all.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Violet Holmes nee Vernet had been holding out hope, not for a grandchild from Sherlock - because she was a realist - but that her younger son might simply find some contentment.

She had imagined, despite the diminishing likelihood, that someday he would bring someone home to meet her. From the time he was a boy, Mycroft had brought a parade of friends and girlfriends for her inspection. Sherlock never brought a single soul: no school chums, no heartbreakingly lovely young women with stars in their eyes, no male lovers, either bashful or boisterous. No one.

Now this. And truly, the mother was more of a shock than the child. It seemed, in hindsight, imaginable that Sherlock would decide the time had come to, as unromantically as possible, produce an heir. But she never could have predicted the mother he chose.

Violet had not wasted the years she was married to her sons' father; she, too, could observe what was in plain view.

Despite having had a child recently, Dr. Hooper's figure was trim. She kept her head bowed and her shoulders hunched, but Violet could see Dr. Hooper had large, dark eyes and the sort of gamine good looks that were easily parlayed into beauty with a little effort. It was clear though, that Dr. Hooper herself was completely unaware of this. Sherlock, who noticed everything, didn't seem to have picked up on it, either. Or perhaps he had noticed some time ago, but wasn't about to let Dr. Hooper in on the secret.

Around her neck, Dr. Hooper wore a dainty gold cross, the sort of jewellery a girl from a lower class family might receive for confirmation in the Catholic Church. The fact that she wore it still meant it had a strong sentimental attachment. Further, she had no holes in her ears, which probably meant she had grown up without a mother, for Violet could not conceive of a daughter with a mother reaching adolescence and not having her ears pierced. So, logically, the necklace had probably come from her father.

So, she had been raised by a working-class, single, likely widowed, Catholic father. She was plain and she was awkward, having never had a mother to teach her that beauty is more a matter of presentation than any actual arrangement of features. She had worked hard - very hard - to achieve the position she now had at St. Bartholomew's. Perhaps because her own mother had died so young, Dr. Hooper felt a certain affinity for the dead, which was why she became a pathologist.

It didn't seem like an ideal match for Violet's son. It seemed less so when she thought of all the times throughout the day when Sherlock had casually disregarded her. Her son reminded her of his father when he behaved that way. She had always thought Sherlock had the worst of both of them: Tarquin's wounding tongue, her own tendency to melancholy; Tarquin's manic thrill-seeking nature, her over-sensitivity; Tarquin's love of attention, and her own diffidence. But today he seemed to be purely his father's son.

There had been a moment, a terrible moment, after dinner. They were having their little trio; she with her cello, Mycroft at the piano, Sherlock on his violin. Gemma and Genevieve were at the far end of the room setting out their riding equipment for the next morning. Phillipa was on the sofa with a magazine, trying to look as if she weren't bored. But Dr. Hooper - Mary, she really ought to try to think of her as Mary - with baby Edmund asleep in her arms, was paying rapt attention. Her arms and throat were gone to gooseflesh and her eyes were like saucers. If it were possible to consume with the eyes, she would have swallowed Sherlock whole.

Violet knew what it was to be enthralled like that; she had, after all, been married to Tarquin Holmes. What troubled her was her son. Violin in hand, he gave the mother of his child a glance of such calculated sexual manipulation that he could have been his father.

It was clear Mary adored Sherlock. It was equally clear he had no problem taking her for granted, using that adoration against her. It didn't come as a surprise, but that didn't make it any less awful. And it was painfully like having her own failed marriage replayed before her eyes. She was not losing her grandson just as she got him, not if she had any say in the matter.

Why was Sherlock being such a fool?

She had to wait until everyone else had gone to bed to educate him.

"Be a dear and fix me a cocktail," she said, and he fairly hurled himself at the bar, eager for the opportunity. He'd been that way since he could walk; he needed a task to be comfortable.

"Name your intoxicant," he grinned, that sweet boyish grin. Oh, he was trying her temper.

Violet smiled back. "Surprise me. Something sweet."

"Kir Royale it is," he said, happily pouring one part creme de cassis into a glass.

"Edmund is a lovely baby," she said earnestly.

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. "Clicquot?"

Violet nodded. "Fine."

He popped the cork on the champagne. "Why did you give away Great Grandmere's ring?" He sounded casual, but she knew the question was anything but.

"I didn't," she replied. "I gave it to Mary."

"Yes, of course." Sherlock handed her the drink. "Why did you do it?"

"Was that a mistake on my part?" she asked.

The wallpaper in this room had always seemed to hold a special interest for Sherlock. It didn't appear to have lessened over the years; he was looking at it rather too intently. "I didn't say that."

Violet swirled the liquid in her glass. "What would you have given her?"

"I gave her a baby," Sherlock said. "That's not enough?"

It took all her will not to slap him. "Yes, about that. I understand that these things happen, even to very bright people. Was it - intentional, Sherlock? On your part?"

He didn't answer.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes. Quite intentional." Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I calculated her ovulation for two months prior to conception."

Violet couldn't help but laugh a little. How like him; how very unlike Tarquin. Sherlock himself had been the result of a drunken accident with a diaphragm and a bout of deep sentimentality. "Oh. I see." Not that she did, entirely.

Sherlock relaxed visibly. "I met her through my work approximately five years ago. She's been of help to me on numerous occasions, a sort of, well, friend. She wanted a baby; I volunteered to assist her."

"Oh." She took a tiny sip. "I shouldn't have had Molly put the two of you in the same room, should I? You might have said something, darling."

Sherlock's reply was hesitation, followed by a shrug. He seemed to want to say something, but bit his lip instead.

"Or was I correct?"

Sherlock's attention went back to the wallpaper. She could see now; he was

counting the fleur-de-lis. Oh dear.

"She seems a wonderful mother," Violet said gently. The last thing she wanted to do was spoil this for him. "Edmund seems a healthy, happy baby and it's obvious that she adores him."

After a moment, he nodded. "She's very maternal."

"She seems rather fond of you, as well," Violet offered, curious to see what he made of it.

"I've no idea what you mean," Sherlock said, his eyes still tracing the pattern on the wall.

"Don't you? Well, it's perfectly clear to me." Violet finished her drink. "She thinks very highly, of you despite your abominable behaviour today."

Sherlock slumped on the divan beside her. "I wasn't that bad."

"You were," Violet informed him. "And as your punishment, you should make me another cocktail."

Sherlock rose to his feet again, and started with a clean glass.

"Do you find you're fond of her, at all?" Violet asked, trying not to pin any hope on it.

"I find that an inappropriate question, Mother." Sherlock poured the champagne.

Violet accepted her drink from him. "It's inappropriate to ask if you are fond of the mother of your son?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"It's inappropriate to ask if you need one room or two? And it may or may not be inappropriate to give her your great grandmother's engagement ring, but you're not telling, are you? Why is that, Sherlock? You brought her here, after all. It's not as if you expected to bring her to an empty house."

He was silent for a long moment. "We have an arrangement," he finally said, seating himself again.

Ah. There it was. "I take it, then, that money is involved?"

Sherlock exhaled loudly. "Only in as much as a father should support his child, and I practically have to force it on her," he said peevishly.

"I should have given you the ring; it should have come from you," Violet said, the drinks starting to hit her.

Sherlock looked her dead in the eye and shook his head slowly. "Not really my thing, Mummy. You know that."

Oh, Sherlock. In some ways, she feared he would forever be eight years old: a beginning meant an end; a marriage meant a divorce. For so long, she had prayed to a God she had long since stopped believing in - Help him. Aidez-le. Protegez-le.

But perhaps she had been all wrong. She shouldn't have prayed for him to be protected; she should have prayed for him to be good.

What kind of mother was she to doubt him? How could she help but doubt him, when he gave her nothing but a bread crumb trail to his emotions to follow?

"And Edmund?" Violet asked, a light dawning in the back of her mind. "Is it inappropriate to ask how you feel about him?"

Sherlock tilted his head as if listening to music far in the distance. His expression was completely blank. "I didn't know I could love anyone so deeply."

In thirty-six years, Sherlock never claimed to love anyone but Violet. If he could bring himself to admit it to her, it could only be because he loved his little son. Oh Sherlock. He was so ill-equipped for this, so brilliant and so horribly stupid. He had the need for what Dr. Hoop - Mary had to offer, but so little to give her in return.

And if it went bad? Would he go back to the drugs? Or would he find some new way to hurt himself?

"For Edmund's sake, dear, you need to understand something I am sure you already know," Violet said. She gently, very gently, took hold of his hand. "If you hurt the mother, you inevitably hurt the child."

"Mummy, I never - no." He shook his head.

"You know, I used to wish your father would strike me." She set her now empty glass down. "That would have made it all so much simpler."

Sherlock stood perfectly still, his eyes wide with horror. "I will never be unfaithful, I swear to you," he said.

The declaration shocked her. Violet wondered how Sherlock could assert he had no relationship with a woman in one breath and swear fidelity the next.

"Sherlock," Violet said, but her son didn't answer. "Sherlock," she repeated. She rose and stood directly in front of him, still holding his hand, as she had done when he was a child and she needed his full attention. "You're either involved with her or you aren't, darling. Which is it?"

Sherlock went very, very still. He closed his eyes tightly. Very, very quietly, he whispered, "Am."

She gently placed her hand on his cheek and waited for him to make eye contact. "You need to listen to me, then; there is more than one way for a woman to lose her faith in a man. You can't treat a woman however you please, run hot and cold by the hour, and think it can all be set right again with a bit of charm. Trust me on this; it wears thin over time."

Sherlock remained silent and unmoving on the sofa for some minutes.

Finally, because Sherlock was himself, he bent and kissed her hand. "Yes. Of course. Of course. Merci, Maman." He rose. "I should - I should be getting to bed."

"Goodnight, Darling," Violet said. She reached up and ruffled his hair. "And don't bother thanking me if you aren't going to take my advice."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly woke up alone in the dark of night. She'd thought Sherlock had bedded down somewhere else, but no. As her eyes adjusted, she saw him, still dressed, head tipped back, mouth open, sleeping in a chair beside the enormous, mostly empty bed.

Molly hugged a pillow tight to her chest and tried to fall back asleep.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

There, in the car Mycroft had sent, Sherlock looked hard at Molly, trying to deduce whether his mother had been correct. Emotional hurt was so much messier in some ways, so much more difficult to discern. He'd rather have a good, clean gunshot wound to inspect any day.

Finally, there was nothing else for it.

"My mother believes I've hurt you," he said.

She didn't answer.

"Molly, have I hurt you?"

She turned to look at him then. "Yes," she answered immediately.

He looked at her chin, at her little hands with their prominent knuckles, then at Edmund in his seat, looking about the way he did. Sherlock was grateful that the boy most likely had no idea what they were saying.

It took him some time to come up with the next logical question.

Keeping his voice soft to avoid upsetting the baby - Edmund might not understand content, but he had a clear grasp of tone, he asked, "Am I hurting you still?"

He waited. Just when he had almost given up any hope of a reply, Molly answered him.

"Yes," she said quietly.

He had no earthly idea how he was expected to respond to that. He sat and thought.

Then, in a moment of desperation, he reached out and took her hand in his.

Molly began to tremble. When he looked up at her, he realized she was weeping.

He gripped her hand tighter, reflexively. In an instant, her face was buried in his lapel, and Edmund had begun to wail.

He was at a loss. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, had no idea what he had done or how to set things right.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

The first thing Molly did upon reaching Baker Street was to take Edmund and lock the two of them in her flat. Sherlock stood on the pavement, Strad in hand, watching them disappear.

He wasn't going to make a scene. He wasn't going to demand that everything be put to rights. He saw nothing for it but to think, and therefore, to play the violin.

The Shostakovich Concerto Number One for violin seemed fitting. He played most of the night.

In the morning, from his seat in by the window, he watched as she took the rubbish to the bin, wearing her horrid dressing gown like a suit of armor. He picked up where he had left off practicing the night before.

He practiced and he watched her and he considered what his next move would be.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was miserable. She was grateful she had the baby to look after or she might not have left her bed at all.

Worse still, she had no one to blame for her misery but herself. She'd known Sherlock for years. She knew what a git he was before she ever went to bed with him, but she had gone ahead and fallen stupidly in love with him anyway. If anything, it seemed as if she loved him more every time she looked at her baby.

She was an idiot. She had gone to that ridiculous country home and sat there with all those witty, pretty people, and there was Sherlock, stunning, as usual, leaving her absolutely stunned. And what was she to him? That's what all those pretty, witty people wanted to know but were too polite to ask.

She could have told them. She should have told them.

Nothing.

She was nothing to him. She was nothing compared to him. She was just barely good enough to give birth to his beautiful, perfect, sweet little baby, just barely noticeable enough to have been allowed to serve that purpose. Beside his child, she was less than nothing, a smear.

It was all clear to her now. She was going to have to get out from under his thumb. She was going to have to get far enough away from him that being nothing wouldn't hurt so much.

She shifted Edmund on her hip. He was hungry again.

The two of them had just settled on the sofa to nurse when a knock at the door came like a stab to her heart. She went cold in the pit of her stomach.

"It's Sherlock," he called out. Other people called your name when they came to the door; Sherlock called his own. Here he comes, ready or not. Well, she was not ready. She could not stand to look at him while she worked out how to leave him.

Could she even leave him, if they weren't together?

"I can't get up; your son is eating," she called out, hoping against hope he would go away. Instead, he let himself in. She didn't recall giving him one, but he had a key. Of course he had a key.

He stood there in the doorway for a moment, pulled at the hem of his shirt in that way he had, and squinted at her. He looked like he was on a runway, modeling this year's 'Too-Cool-And-Clever-For-Someone-Like-You-Molly-Hooper' collection.

"We have reached the point where renegotiation of our initial arrangement is in order," he said, standing tall. "The current situation is unsatisfactory, therefore a change in the agreement is necessitated and I believe I have come up with an equitable solution."

She sighed. Trust Sherlock to come up with an agreement about their lack of a relationship without actually bothering to consult her.

He thought it was unsatisfactory so he was going to break it off. Fine. She didn't know whether she was devastated or relieved.

What would it be? Was he going to tell her that her services were no longer required? Give her a big, fat cheque and banish her to Wales? The Orkneys? It was no less than she deserved. Stupid Molly. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Oh Sherlock, please. What's the use?"

He didn't answer, so set was he on his script. His standing tall turned to pacing. "I am prepared to offer you sexual fidelity, financial support, and complete access to my laboratory equipment, should you want it," he said, walking back and forth the length of her sitting room, not looking at her once. "In exchange, you must only agree not to leave."

Well, that wasn't what she had been expecting, not at all. It made her head hurt.

She moved Eddie to her other breast, using the time it took to think of a response. "Why, Sherlock? I know you love Edmund. You'll still be his father wherever we are. I just - I don't like being the invisible woman." She felt foolish, but she wanted him to understand, wished to God he could understand. "I can't stand being right here, this close, and not mattering to you."

He blinked at her. She could see him growing angrier by the second.

"You don't matter?" he snarled. "You don't - how - how stupid can you be?"

Molly wrapped her arms around Edmund, pulled him close. She was angry and afraid, and sad, so sad. "Sherlock, stop it. I don't matter. Not to you."

"Why do you think I volunteered to father your child?" he asked, exasperated, furious.

"You told me - " she began.

"For mortuary access?" he said. "Really? You think so little of me? Are you so stupid that you don't know a lie when you hear one? I fathered your child because I would rather do that than have you move to Petersfield or Bexhill or bloody Hove!"

Molly blinked. All the towns she'd researched. "How did you -?"

"Why do you think Moriarty seduced you?" he demanded.

Molly frowned in confusion. "I don't -"

"No, you don't," he snapped. "He hurt you for the same reason he strapped a vest full of Semtex to John. He wanted to destroy me, he wanted to take away the things that mattered to me, Molly, and he knew you were one of them!"

"But you - we weren't - what?" She shook her head; it was too ridiculous to even contemplate.

"I wasn't 'with' anyone, and neither were you. We shared many horrid meals in Barts cafeteria, spoke frequently. You were never rude or condescending or dismissive," he said staring at the ceiling. "You could have denied me access, but instead, you assisted me. I was an arrogant arse to you on too many occasions to count, and still you were kind to me. You were kind to me when I least deserved it."

She ran her fingers through Edmund's hair over and over until it stood on end. "You deserve more than you think, Sherlock." He was getting to her, twisting her round to loving him too much to leave, twisting her round to hoping for the future and she wasn't sure how angry she felt about it. Livid? Fighting mad? Or just resigned?

"Your agreement -" she said.

"Our agreement," he corrected.

"No." She was tired of having his words shoved into her mouth. She placed Edmund in his carry cot and stood. "I said your agreement and I meant your agreement. It doesn't have a thing to do with me. I'm thinking over all the things that you've said and none of it means anything. I matter to you? On what bloody planet? I'm more like a pet. 'Good Molly, sit, stay, roll over, stitch this up, make me a sandwich! Take off your knickers, Molly!'"

Sherlock flattened his lips to a thin line and swallowed hard. "That's - that is not fair."

"Not fair?" she repeated, suddenly feeling absurdly calm. No tears. No squeaking. Not even a bit shrill. "What's not fair, Sherlock, is being in love with someone who has no feelings for you."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then another. He couldn't do this if he were looking at her, so he looked at the ceiling. "Of course I have feelings for you," he said as evenly, as calmly, as he had ever said anything. "I feel them and I wish I didn't. I wish you could go to Bexhill and that I wouldn't care. I wish it didn't matter to me what you did or where you went." He glanced at Edmund then at her and his voice began to rise. "But I care. I care entirely too much."

He hadn't intended it, but once he opened his mouth, the words started coming out, totally unplanned words, filled with rage. He was his father, snarling at his mother, like he was watching it all from outside his own body. "Would you like me to lie? I can lie. 'Oh Molly, I love you. I love you soooo bloody much, it's like there are rainbows shooting out of all my bodily orifices. Soon I shall be sicking up kittens!' How's that?"

Because she was a good mother, Molly ignored his tirade and went to pick up her now crying baby. His baby. The one he made cry.

Edmund hardly ever cried. His eyes were slits and his mouth was wide. Screaming. Edmund was screaming. And Sherlock had done it.

Molly rocked the baby in her arms. "There, there," she said almost, as though she were reading the lines of a comforting mother between her own sniffles.

Unsure of what else he could do, he laid his hand on Edmund. Molly gave him a hard look but didn't snatch the child away.

"I have no wish to become my father," he said, without premeditation.

"Your father?"

He didn't suppose she had any reason to know, but the question tripped him up. "He - he told my mother he loved her. He told her all the time, regularly, like clockwork, day in, day out, over and over and over. In the end, it meant nothing. He broke her heart. He destroyed my home." His voice sounded strange in his ears. "And I doubt it gave him a moment's pause."

Molly sighed. She didn't look angry. She seemed tired. She seemed defeated. Oh, well done, Sherlock, he thought, hating himself.

"I want you to like me, Molly," he said. "And I - I want you to stay. Permanently. That's all." He was looking back at the ceiling, where the swirls in the plaster made irregular arcs. He wondered if it were possible to get someone in to even them up.

"Sherlock -"

"What have I done wrong? Tell me so I can correct it. Because I will. I will."

Molly shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. You want me to like you, but the truth is that I love you and I want you to love me back, and that's - that's just unreasonable. I can't expect you to feel something you don't, and I'd rather, I'd much rather, you didn't lie about it."

Sherlock had no idea what he was supposed to say or do. First of all, love did not exist, not the sort Molly meant. Secondly, if it did, he would love Molly. Thirdly, how could she possibly want him to love her? He could only be guaranteed to get it wrong.

She was good at that, loving people. Even with the corpses at Barts, everyone commented on how gentle and respectful she was with them. He, on the other hand, couldn't even manage that with the living. He failed even at liking people, most of the time. He was the very definition of 'not good;' she could ask John.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. He felt Edmund's soft hair and, for an instant, his hand touched Molly's. It felt like electricity; it stunned the words right out of him.

"Some things," he began, but stopped to clear his throat. "Some things defy the descriptive power of words. People say they love a suit or a car or some inane thing they see on the telly. They say all you need is love, and a few years later it all ends in murder or worse, much worse, in an ugly divorce."

Molly nodded.

"It's a useless term. The way I feel is - I feel as though my chest is a gun ready to fire when I see you coming up the stairs. I feel as though I could quite easily kill anyone who brought you harm. I feel as though I could behave like a fool on your account. I'm sure I often do, despite my best efforts."

"That's the one, Sherlock." Molly said, with a sad smile. "That's the feeling, that's it exactly. Welcome to the club."

Sherlock was certain he had never in his life felt as clumsy and strange as he did at that moment, wrapping his arms round Molly and the now-settled Edmund. He tucked the crown of her head under his chin. Her plait hung to the side, revealing the curve of her neck. On the bare skin there he traced a lemniscate: forever. "Oh," he said, truly surprised. "I - oh."

They stood, the three of them, silent, unmoving.

"I love you, Sherlock," she told his chest.

"And, I, um, yes," he told the air above her head, once his heart started to beat again.

"Okay," she said after a time. She pulled away, and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "Yes. Alright."

"Alright?"

"I agree to your terms, Sherlock," she said. "I've no need of your lab equipment, but providing your keep up your side, I'll stay. We'll stay."

"You will? Really?"

She nodded. "We will."

"Good. Yes, that's - that's good, yes." It was awkward with Edmund between them, but he kissed her once, very gently, sealing the pact. "Yes. Good."

"Good," she agreed.

It was ridiculous, he told himself, as his heart rose to his throat. This was it? This was really what other people called 'love'? Somehow he doubted it, but if so, more fools they. There were no hearts or flowers here, no kittens or rainbows. The was only fire, only hunger, only the desire to consume, and in turn, be consumed. The sweet smell of her, of breast milk, of their child, filling his nostrils; the feel of them, close and warm - he would never, could never, get his fill. This unnamable need would never be satiated.

"Molly?"

She looked up at him, wide-eyed, expectant. "Yes?"

He pressed his lips to her forehead. "I'm starving."

The End

Special thanks again to gozadreams for Brit-picking! Thanks (but no less special) to everyone who commented, favourited, reviewed, recced, etc. We truly appreciate your interest and support.

OneMillionAndNine and MaybeAmanda


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